Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN 


STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT 


ESSAYS 


SELECTED    FROM    THE    PAPERS 


OF  THE   LATE 


LEWIS   R.   PACKARD 

HILLHOUSE  PROFESSOR  OF  GREEK  IN  YALE  COLLEGE 


BOSTON 

PUBLISHED   BY   GINN   &  COMPANY 
1886 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1886,  by 

GINN  &  COMPANY, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


J.  S.  GUSHING  &  Co.,  PRINTERS,  BOSTON. 


PREFACE. 


PROFESSOR  LEWIS  R.  PACKARD  died  on  the  26th 
of  October,  1884,  in  the  forty-ninth  year  of  his  age, 
having  just  completed  his  twenty-fifth  year  of  ser- 
vice as  instructor  in  Yale  College.  He  was  born  Aug. 
22d,  1836,  graduated  in  1856,  was  appointed  tutor 
in  1859,  Assistant  Professor  of  Greek  in  1863, 
Hillhouse  Professor  of  Greek  in  1867,  and  became 
Senior  Professor  of  Greek  after  the  death  of  Pro- 
fessor Hadley  in  1872.  He  was  President  of  the 
American  Philological  Association  in  1881,  and 
Director  of  the  American  School  of  Classical 
Studies  at  Athens,  1883-1884. 

Mr.  Packard  prepared  for  the  press  but  two  of 
the  Essays  in  this  volume.  Doubtless  he  would 
have  improved  the  literary  finish  of  the  others  if 
he  could  have  revised  them,  although  he  was  not 
accustomed  to  commit  his  thoughts  in  full  to  paper 
until  they  were  well  matured  in  his  mind.  The 
reader  will  surely  not  be  disturbed  by  the  lack  of 
a  rhetorical  peroration  for  the  second  Essay. 


1063472 


IV  PREFACE. 

The  Essays  on  Plato  are  part  of  a  course  of  lec- 
tures prepared  for  College  classes,  of  which  these  two 
only  were  fully  written  out,  the  rest  having  been 
given  from  careful  notes  with  only  now  and  then 
a  finished  and  elaborated  section. 

The  Summaries  of  the  Oedipus  at  Kolonos  and 
Antigone  of  Sophokles  were  written  at  Athens  dur- 
ing Mr.  Packard's  last  winter  of  feverish  weakness 
and  suffering  (1883-1884),  on  small  slips  of  paper 
which  he  carried  in  the  pocket  of  his  wrapper. 
One  of  his  few  drives  during  this  last  visit  to 
Greece  was  to  the  hill  of  Kolonos,  and  he  toiled 
up  the  little  slope  to  gaze  with  charmed  eyes  upon 
the  beautiful  landscape  of  which  he  speaks  in  the 
Summary. 

The  jottings  which  are  appended  to  these  Sum- 
maries were  probably  the  germs,  as  they  lay  in 
his  mind,  of  such  discussions  as  are  found  in  the 
Essay  on  the  Oedipus  Rex. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Religion  and  Morality  of  the  Greeks I 

Plato's    Arguments  in  the   Phaedo   for    the    Immor- 
tality of  the  Soul 41 

III.  On  Plato's  System  of  Education  in  the  Republic     .     65 

IV.  The  Oedipus  Rex  of  Sophokles 77 

V.     The  Oedipus  at  Kolonos  of  Sophokles 121 

VI.     The  Antigone  of  Sophokles 143 

VII.     The  Beginning  of  a  Written  Literature   among   the 

Greeks 157 


I. 


MORALITY   AND    RELIGION    OF   THE 
GREEKS.1 

T  WISH  to  present  to  you  some  thoughts,  in  the 
way  of  suggestion  rather  than  as  conclusions,  on 
the  morality  and  religion  of  the  Greeks.  It  is  a  topic 
that  has  been  often  touched  upon,  and  in  some  of  its 
parts  treated  at  great  length.  I  am  not  so  bold  as  to 
expect  to  clear  away,  at  a  blow,  the  difficulties  of  such 
a  subject,  or  to  advance  wholly  new  views  upon  it. 
But  it  is  one  upon  which  new  light  is  continually 
being  thrown,  in  one  part  or  another,  and  I  may  hope 
that  the  thoughts  which  have  interested  me  may 
interest  others  also. 

It  is  natural  to  try  to  begin  at  the  beginning  and 
see  whether  we  can  ascertain  what  was  the  basis  of 
the  moral  ideas  of  the  Greeks.  Can  we  find  any  pre- 
existing institution,  any  simpler  or  more  fundamental 
series  of  conceptions,  upon  which  their  theories  of 
human  duty  and  their  practical  rules  were  founded  ? 

1  President's  address  at  the  annual  meeting  of  the  American  Philolog- 
ical Association,  at  Cleveland,  July  12,  1881.  It  was  privately  printed, 
and  dedicated  "  to  Theodore  D.  Woolsey,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  lately  president 
of  Yale  College,  on  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  entering  upon  the 
office  of  Professor  of  Greek,  with  most  sincere  respect  and  affection, 
from  an  old  pupil." 


2  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

It  seems  plain  at  the  outset  that  they  were  not  based 
upon  the  Olympian  theology  as  set  forth  by  the 
earlier  poets.  For  that  theology  during  the  period 
of  our  knowledge  of  the  Greeks  was  rather  out  of 
harmony  with  the  moral  sense  of  the  people,  lagging 
behind,  as  it  were,  and  needing  to  be  corrected  and 
interpreted  by  the  more  reflective  minds.  Thus  it 
has  been  noticed  that  the  men  in  Homer  are  of  purer 
morals  than  the  gods ;  and  it  is  well  known  that 
from  Xenophanes  on  to  Plato,  and  even  farther,  men 
are  continually  criticizing  the  Olympian  theology  on 
moral  grounds.  And  new  developments  are  made 
of  it,  reforms  within  the  system,  apparently  to  meet 
the  higher  demands  of  later  times.  We  can  hardly 
admit,  then,  although  it  seems  to  have  been  a  com- 
mon opinion  among  the  Greeks  themselves,1  that  the 
Olympian  theology  was  the  sole  or  chief  source  of 
Greek  morality.  There  must  have  been  some  other 
agency  acting  alongside  of  it,  to  elevate  if  not  to 
originate  moral  ideas.  Nor  could  these  ideas  have 
been  originated  by  the  ceremonial  worship  connected 
with  that  theology,  for  that  is  probably  itself  an  effect 
rather  than  a  cause,  and  has  almost  no  reference  to 
the  larger  part  of  morals,  —  the  duties  of  man  to  his 
fellow-man.  The  same  thing  is  to  be  said  of  the  mys- 
teries, if  anything  can  be  confidently  said  of  them, 
and  of  the  oracles  with  a  partial  exception,  mainly  in 
regard  to  that  of  Delphi,  to  be  referred  to  farther  on. 
I  need  not  linger  to  prove  that  the  moral  ideas  of 

1  Isokrates,  XI.  41. 


MORALITY  AND   RELIGION   OF   THE  GREEKS.  3 

the  people  cannot  have  been  based  on  the  teachings 
of  philosophers.  Their  task  is  to  explain  and  defend, 
and  enforce  duties  already  admitted  in  theory.  They 
are  often  reformers  in  morals,  but  they  certainly  were 
not  the  authors  of  morality  among  the  Greeks. 

Where,  then,  shall  we  look  for  an  answer  to  our 
question  ?  Was  there  any  other  form  of  belief  or 
practice  current  among  the  Greeks  which  may  have 
contained  the  germ  of  moral  ideas?  There  was  one, 
of  which  the  fullest  exposition  is  given  by  a  French 
scholar,  Coulanges.  In  his  work,  "The  Ancient 
City,"  he  maintains  that  the  earliest  Aryan  religion 
was  a  worship  of  the  dead,  —  each  family  recognizing 
its  departed  ancestors  as  divine  beings,  and  offering 
worship  to  them,  —  and  that  with  this  was  combined 
the  worship  of  the  hearth-fire,  as  if  its  flame  was  in 
some  sense  a  representative  of  the  deceased  persons. 
This  double  worship,  he  claims,  extended  through 
the  Indian,  Greek,  and  Italian  branches  of  the  Aryan 
family,  lasted  throughout  the  ancient  history  of 
Greece  and  Italy,  and  still  exists  in  India.  He  finds 
his  proof  in  the  classical  literatures  in  the  shape  of 
references  to  forms  of  burial,  anniversary  rites  at 
graves,  and  the  worship  of  Hestia.  I  observe  that 
Sellar  in  his  book  on  Vergil  accepts  this  theory  as 
well  founded,1  and  it  must  be  said  that  many  passages 
in  Greek  literature  indicate  the  existence  of  some 
such  ideas,  forming  a  sort  of  private  family  religion 
by  the  side  of  the  Olympian  system.  This  worship, 

1  Sellar's  Virgil,  p.  365  f. 


4  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

Coulanges  holds,  was  the  bond  which  constituted 
and  preserved  the  family,  and  out  of  the  family  rela- 
tion came  all  the  fundamental  morality  of  the  people. 
Duties  of  kindness  and  mutual  help  grew  out  of 
regard  for  the  spirits  of  the  dead,  truth  and  purity 
out  of  respect  for  the  ever-present  deity  of  the  fire. 
In  this  last  step  we  cannot  follow  him,  mainly  for 
the  reason  that  before  the  members  of  a  family  could 
have  united  in  the  worship  of  a  deceased  ancestor, 
the  family  life  must  have  been  otherwise  developed 
and  been  recognized  as  a  bond  of  mutual  rights  and 
duties.  If  we  admit  that  man  has  been  produced  by 
gradual  steps  of  elevation  from  animal  life,  it  seems 
clear  that  many  such  steps  must  have  been  taken 
before  the  custom  of  ancestor-worship  could  be  estab- 
lished, and  that  in  those  steps  much  of  what  the 
theory  ascribes  to  that  worship  would  be  already 
involved.  The  recognition  of  descent  in  a  single  line 
and  of  kinship  between  collateral  branches  implies  a 
degree  of  intellectual  and  moral  development  which 
would  leave  comparatively  little  to  be  done  in  that 
direction  by  the  observance  of  the  worship  of  ances- 
tors. Hence  we  can  give  to  this  worship  only  a 
subordinate  place  in  the  building  up  of  a  moral  sys- 
tem. Furthermore,  it  is  by  no  means  clear  that  this 
institution  or  custom  was  a  real  worship.  It  is 
thought  by  some  careful  scholars  that  it  was  merely 
an  affectionate  honoring  of  the  dead,  and  it  is  cer- 
tainly true  that  the  passages  in  Greek  literature  do 
not  clearly  show  anything  more  than  that,  unless  in 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.  5 

apparently  exceptional  cases.1  They  do,  however, 
seem  to  indicate  a  fixed  and  constant  usage  of  honor 
to  the  dead,  which  may  perhaps  fairly  be  supposed 
to  have  had  some  of  the  influence  which  Coulanges 
ascribes  to  it  under  the  name  of  a  religion.  As  to 
the  worship  of  fire  the  case  is  different.  We  have 
in  Hesiod2  some  important  indications  of  the  preva- 
lence of  a  belief  in  the  divinity  of  the  hearth-fire  and 
the  duty  of  purity  in  its  presence,  but  in  the  later 
life  of  the  people  this  belief  seems  to  have  disap- 
peared or  changed  its  form.  It  is  at  least  doubtful 
whether  for  the  Greeks  it  ever  had  any  such  influ- 
ence or  any  such  connection  with  the  worship  of  the 
dead  as  this  theory  assumes. 

If  then  we  do  not  find  the  source  of  Greek  morals 
in  either  of  these  religious  systems  or  in  the  doc- 
trines of  philosophers,  perhaps  we  ought  to  go  back 
to  the  time  before  they  left  their  original  seat  in 
Asia,  and  see  if  anything  in  the  oldest  remains  of 
their  Indian  kinsfolk  can  give  the  answer  to  our 
question.  We  find  in  Earth's  sketch  of  the  religions 
of  India,  which  I  am  enabled  to  pronounce  trust- 
worthy on  the  highest  authority,  a  brief  account  of 
the  morality  implied  in  the  earliest  Vedic  hymns. 
Humility,  sincerity,  affection,  in  man's  attitude 
towards  the  gods,  benevolence  to  the  suffering,  truth 
and  justice  in  dealings  with  his  fellow-man,  —  such 
is  the  outline  that  Barth  gives,  and  for  the  evidence 
of  these  ideas  of  duty,  for  that  which  shows  these 

1  Such  as  Eur.  Alk.  995-1005.  2  Works  and  Days,  733  f. 


6  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

things  to  have  been  understood  to  be  duties,  he 
points  to  the  conception  of  the  gods  contained  in  the 
hymns.  Have  we  here  at  last  found  what  we  are 
seeking  ?  Not  yet,  for  the  question  is  only  pushed 
one  step  farther  back.  Whence  came  such  ideas  of 
the  gods  ?  We  see  in  the  case  of  the  Greek  mythol- 
ogy that  it  is  not  necessary  for  men  to  have  such  a 
conception  of  beings  whom  they  may  worship.  How 
was  it  then  that  the  Aryans  of  the  Vedic  period 
formed  in  any  degree  so  pure  and  lofty  ideas  of  the 
divine  character  ?  It  may  satisfy  us  to  accept  this 
as  an  ultimate  fact  which  we  cannot  analyze,  and 
then  we  should  have  an  answer  to  our  question: 
The  morality  of  the  Greeks  was  inherited  from  their 
Aryan  ancestors,  and  theirs  was  founded  upon  their 
religion.  This  answer  would  once  have  been  enough, 
but  we  shall  surely  be  told  at  the  present  day  that 
we  are  looking  into  the  matter  at  a  point  too  far 
down  the  current  of  history  to  find  the  origin  of  any- 
thing, that  we  must  go  back  beyond  all  literature  to 
the  time  of  the  primitive  man,  and  study  in  the 
savage  life  of  some  Pacific  island  or  African  hut- 
village  the  true  parallel  to  the  beginnings  of  Greek 
life.  There  can  be  no  objection  to  such  a  method 
from  any  idea  that  it  would  be  derogatory  to  the 
Greek  character  to  suppose  it  to  have  passed  through 
such  a  period.  The  Greeks  themselves,  as  full  of 
national  pride  as  any  people  could  be,  imagined  such 
a  prehistoric  stage  in  the  life  of  their  ancestors. 
Aeschylos  makes  Prometheus1  describe  men  as  liv- 

1  Aesch.  Prom.  447—471. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.  / 

ing  like  ants  in  holes  in  the  earth,  destitute  of  all 
the  elements  of  civilization,  until  he  taught  them  to 
build  houses,  to  mark  the  seasons,  to  count,  and  so 
forth.  Other  poets  and  philosophers  recognize  a 
similar  period.  But  if  we  adopt  this  course,  we  lose 
our  special  subject  in  the  wider  one  of  the  origin  of 
moral  ideas  in  the  human  race  as  a  whole,  upon 
which  Greek  usages  may  throw  light,  but  only  as 
one  among  many  sources  of  information.  And  I 
think  it  may  fairly  be  said  that,  though  this  method 
may  be  the  right  one,  it  has  hardly  yet  so  proved  its 
processes  or  led  to  such  definite  and  accepted  results 
as  to  justify  its  general  adoption.  Unless  then  we 
are  satisfied  with  tracing  the  Greek  morality  back  to 
the  ideas  implied  in  the  Vedic  hymns  and  accounting 
for  those  as  based  upon  the  religious  system  of  the 
same  hymns,  I  do  not  see  but  that  we  must  give  up 
our  quest  and  adopt  the  words  of  Antigone  1  when 
she  says  of  the  unwritten  laws  of  religion  and  duty, 

ov  -yap  TI  vvv  ye  /edge's,   oAA'  del  TTOTC 
£$  ravro, 


If  now  we  admit  that  the  origin  of  Greek  morality 
is  lost  to  our  knowledge  in  the  remote  past,  it  is  nat- 
ural for  us  to  look  at  it  within  the  period  known  to  us 
and  see  whether  it  has  a  history  in  that  time,  whether 
it  undergoes  changes  either  by  way  of  improvement 
or  of  deterioration.  What  then  are  the  materials  that 
we  have  for  this  investigation  ?  If  we  arrange  our 

1  Soph.  Ant.  456  f.  ["They  are  not  of  to-day  nor  yesterday  |  But 
live  forever,  nor  can  man  assign  |  When  first  they  sprang  to  being."] 


8  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

materials  in  the  order  of  their  value,  we  should  put 
in  the  first  place  inscriptions,  vase  paintings,  etc.,  in 
a  word,  all  monumental  records.  These  would  yield 
but  little  information,  but  that  little  would  be  valu- 
able in  direct  ratio  to  its  scantiness.  For  they  are 
contemporary  witnesses  and  in  a  sense  impersonal, 
that  is,  not  likely  to  be  affected  by  the  personality  of 
the  author  in  such  a  way  as  to  impair  the  value  of 
their  testimony  as  to  facts  and  usages.  We  should 
put  next  to  these,  institutions  and  customs  incident- 
ally made  known  to  us  by  statements  in  literature, 
such  for  instance  as  the  Orphans'  Court  at  Athens, 
or  the  practice  of  offering  one's  slaves  to  be  tortured 
for  proof  of  a  statement  in  a  trial.  As  a  third  source 
of  information,  and  perhaps  the  most  fruitful  one,  but 
needing  to  be  used  with  critical  care  as  to  authenti- 
city and  historic  probability,  and  of  course  with  con- 
stant observation  of  dates,  we  have  the  recorded  inci- 
dents of  private  and  public  life,  all  actions  of  states 
or  individuals  of  which  we  can  determine  the  moral 
character.  Such  stories  should  be  collected  not  only 
from  histories  but  from  all  the  literature,  including 
especially  Plutarch,  with  the  aim  of  forming  as  com- 
plete a  picture  as  possible  of  the  life  of  the  average 
man.  This  vein  has  been  worked  to  advantage  by 
Mahaffy  in  his  "  Social  Life  in  Greece,"  but  with  cer- 
tain prejudices  and  an  occasional  misuse  of  authori- 
ties which  detract  from  the  value  of  the  book.  Cer- 
tainly a  great  service  remains  to  be  rendered  by  any 
one  who  will  carefully  collect  such  evidence,  without 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.          9 

preconceived  theories,  and  present  it  well  arranged 
and  digested.  In  the  fourth  and  last  place  would 
come  the  deliberate  expressions  of  moral  and  relig- 
ious feeling  by  the  poets  and  philosophers.  I  put 
these  last  partly  because  they  are  apt  to  be  put  first. 
The  usual  way  of  expounding  the  religion  and  moral- 
ity of  the  Greeks  is  to  cull  passages  from  the  poets 
and  philosophic  moralists,  to  classify  those  on  the 
same  topic  together,  and  thus  to  frame  a  scheme  of 
morals  which  is  ascribed  to  the  people  at  large.  This 
is  then  offset  by  evidence  of  the  lewdness  of  the  time, 
taken  generally  from  Aristophanes,  and  some  glaring 
cases  of  cruelty,  dishonesty,  etc.,  and  we  are  left  with 
the  impression  that  the  Greek  character  was  made  up 
of  irreconcilable  extremes.  But  these  leading  writers 
are  not  safe  guides  as  to  the  moral  tenets  and  practice 
of  the  common  people,  for  two  reasons,  (i)  They  are 
picked  men,  men  of  profound  thought  and  rich  imagi- 
nation. They  may  be  conscious  innovators,  leaders 
in  the  introduction  of  new  ideas.  Some  of  them, 
Aeschylos,  Euripides,  Plato,  for  example,  were  at 
variance  with  the  sentiment  of  their  time  and  keenly 
critical  of  the  tone  of  character  prevalent  among  the 
people.  Plato  would  have  regarded  it  as  an  insult  to 
be  taken  as  a  representative  of  the  ideas  of  the  mass 
of  men  of  his  day.  (2)  They  are  seen  in  their  works 
at  their  own  highest  moral  pitch.  They  are  writing 
under  the  excitement  of  poetic  or  speculative  inspira- 
tion. They  may  be  writing  expressly  to  instruct  and 
elevate  the  men  about  them.  They  may  write  better 


10  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

than  they  themselves  ever  lived,  without  any  decep- 
tion, being  simply  lifted  up  to  a  higher  plane  than 
they  often  reached.  For  these  reasons  the  language 
of  these  writers  needs  to  be  constantly  modified  by 
comparison  with  the  picture  of  real  life  to  be  found 
in  historical  narrative  or  anywhere  else.  Indeed,  an 
incident  casually  mentioned  by  Plato,  whether  real  or 
fictitious,  may  be  of  more  value  for  the  purpose  in 
hand  than  a  whole  dialogue  of  lofty  moral  reasoning. 
Of  course  we  should  not  exclude  the  thoughts  of 
poets  and  philosophers  from  our  collection  of  mate- 
rial. The  expression  of  the  moral  sense  of  a  com- 
munity takes  the  most  varied  forms,  and  the  student 
of  it  must  pay  heed  to  the  extremes  in  both  direc- 
tions ;  but  yet  the  most  valuable  information  will  come 
from  the  comparatively  scanty  manifestations  which 
lie  between  the  extremes.  What  he  wants  to  learn 
are  the  facts  of  ordinary  life,  the  actions  that  seemed 
natural  and  so  attracted  no  attention,  which  for  that 
very  reason  are  rarely  recorded  and  hard  to  find. 

Looking  at  a  part  of  the  period  in  something  of  the 
way  now  indicated,  one  might  justly  say  that  between 
the  Homeric  and  the  Periklean  age  there  was  some- 
how brought  about  an  improvement  in  morals.  Mr. 
Grote  l  has  pointed  out  indications  of  this  in  three 
notable  particulars, — the  position  of  orphans,  the  way 
of  dealing  with  homicide,  and  the  treatment  of  slain 
enemies  in  war.  In  these  there  is  definite  and  real 
progress.  In  some  other  respects  we  find  perhaps 
1  History  of  Greece,  Am.  ed.,  II.  pp.  91  ff. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        I  I 

less  positive  traces  of  the  same  progress.  The  family 
was  in  the  Homeric  age  established  and  recognized 
as  the  framework  of  human  life.  Such  a  conception 
as  that  of  Nausikaa  is  by  itself  sufficient  to  prove  this. 
Yet  at  the  same  time  there  are  some  things  not  quite 
in  keeping  with  so  high  an  ideal.  For  instance,  the 
Greek  chiefs  at  Troy  openly  keep  the  captive  women 
as  paramours.  We  can  hardly  imagine  the  Athenian 
generals  at  Potidaea  or  Samos  doing  this  in  such  a 
way.  The  rights  of  property  were  ill-defined,  and 
especially  that  of  inheritance  seems  to  be  not  yet 
securely  established.  The  absence  of  money  and  of 
details  of  business  transactions  from  the  Homeric 
poems  leaves  us  without  means  of  comparison  as  to 
any  standard  of  honesty  in  such  matters.  But  the 
honor  given  to  the  wily  and  unscrupulous  Odysseus 
seems  to  indicate  a  low  morality  which  as  soon  as 
commerce  fairly  began  would  show  itself  fully  in  that 
sphere.  Without  thought  of  trying  to  defend  the 
Greeks  of  ancient  or  modern  times  from  any  deserved 
reproach  in  this  matter,  we  ought  yet  to  recognize 
that  the  system  of  exchange  and  banking  which  was 
carried  on  at  Athens  in  "historic  times,  simple  as  it 
may  seem  in  comparison  with  the  modern  develop- 
ment, implies  a  great  degree  of  confidence,  which  in 
its  turn  necessarily  presupposes  a  measure  of  honesty. 
The  cases  of  breach  of  contract  or  other  forms  of  dis- 
honesty, made  known  to  us  by  the  speeches  prepared 
for  the  fesulting  trials,  must  have  been  the  excep- 
tions, or  we  cannot  see  how  the  system  could  have 


12          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

come  into  existence  or  lasted  a  week.  Again,  in 
regard  to  courage,  as  shown  in  war,  there  seems  to 
be  distinct  indication  of  progress.  Though  the  Iliad 
is  a  poem  of  war,  and  its  pages  abound  in  battles,  yet 
it  does  not  give  the  impression  that  military  courage 
in  any  high  degree  characterized  the*  heroes  cele- 
brated in  it  or  the  people  among  whom  it  was  com- 
posed. There  is  hardly  a  trace  in  it  of  such  courage 
as  was  shown  at  Thermopylae  or  at  Koroneia,1  by 
which  a  man  can  stand  at  his  post  and  wait  for  certain 
death  on  the  chance  of  saving  some  one  else  behind 
him,  or  march  steadily  forward  step  by  step  in  even 
line  till  the  enemy's  spear  touches  your  breast  and 
the  deadly  crush  comes.  Such  courage  marks  a 
moral  advance  because  it  arises  from  two  moral 
causes  :  first,  a  sense  of  duty,  more  or  less  distinctly 
conceived,  to  the  state  or  some  power  above  the  indi- 
vidual ;  and  second,  the  habit  of  disciplined  action  in 
a  body,  which  only  the  influence  of  some  such  supe- 
rior power  can  originate  and  maintain.  Now  it  is  to 
be  observed  that  all  these  indications  of  improvement 
in  morals  are  matters  which  show  a  development  of 
social  relations,  an  increased  sense  of  society  as  hav- 
ing claims  on  the  individual  and  doing  work  for  him. 
In  the  treatment  of  orphans  and  of  homicides  the 
moral  sense  of  the  people  has  substituted  for  the 
irregular  and  uncertain  action  of  the  individual  or  the 
family  a  system  of  definite  usage  to  be  followed  by 
some  representative  of  the  community.  In  the  treat- 

1  See  Grote's  description,  History  of  Greece,  Am.  ed.,  IX.  p.  314  f. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        13 

ment  of  enemies  slain  in  war,  in  matters  of  honesty 
and  courage,  in  conjugal  fidelity,  there  is  a  fuller  con- 
sciousness of  society  as  standing  by  and  looking  on 
with  an  opinion  that  must  be  respected.  There  is 
something  of  this,  of  course,  in  the  Homeric  poems, 
but  in  the  later  period  we  see  its  influence  to  be 
decidedly  stronger  in  the  particulars  mentioned.  It 
is  part  of  the  general  social  progress  which  is  seen  as 
well  in  government,  art,  and  commerce.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  was  a  decline  of  morals  in  some 
other  particulars,  two  of  which  may  be  noticed  here. 
The  change  in  the  position  of  woman  in  the  family  is 
a  familiar  fact.  How  far  it  was  due  to  a  greater 
licentiousness  and  an  increase  of  luxury  and  extrava- 
gance, as  K.  F.  Hermann l  suggests,  and  how  far  to  a 
change  in  the  political  importance  of  woman,  as 
Mahaffy  2  thinks,  we  may  leave  unnoticed  here.  The 
form  of  slavery  too  shows  a  change  in  moral  tone. 
In  heroic  times,  slaves  are  acquired  originally  by 
capture  in  war,  and  are  regarded  as  part  of  the  family. 
In  later  times  they  become  more  commonly  articles 
of  merchandise  and  are  used  less  mildly,  as*  mere 
machines,  in  mines  and  factories.  On  these  two 
classes  the  progress  in  civilization  somehow  presses 
heavily  to  their  disadvantage.  To  the  fact  above 
noted,  that  the  advance  in  morals  in  the  historic 
time  is  seen  in  such  matters  as  belong  to  a  more 
developed  influence  of  society,  another  fact  corre- 

1  Culturgeschichte  der  Griechen  und  Romer,  I.  p.  135. 

2  Social  Life  in  Greece,  p.  136  f. 


14  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

spends,  that  we  find  in  Homer  the  more  private  and 
personal  virtues,  such  as  generosity,  loyalty  to 
friends,  the  sense  of  personal  honor,  apparently  in  a 
better  condition  than  in  later  times.  How  far  this 
difference  is  due  to  the  difference  in  the  sources  of 
our  knowledge,  may  be  a  question.  Of  the  Homeric 
society  we  have  a  picture  refined  by  the  poet's  touch, 
e?ri  TO  tcd\\iov  Keicoa-fji'rjfjievov,  to  adapt  the  words  of 
Thukydides.1  Whereas  in  our  knowledge  of  the 
historic  period  we  come  nearer  to  the  hard  facts  of 
actual  occurrence.  Certainly  the  tendency  in  a  work 
of  imagination  is  to  present  ideals  of  individual  char- 
acters. The  poet  will  naturally  make  his  heroes  and 
heroines  attractive  according  to  his  standard,  indulg- 
ing himself  in  his  freedom  from  the  restraint  of  facts. 
Here  we  see  a  reason  to  regret  our  hopeless  igno- 
rance of  the  relative  date  of  the  Hesiodic  poetry. 
If,  as  is  supposed,  it  is  but  little  later  than  that  of 
the  Homeric,  then  we  ought  perhaps  to  take  the 
"  Works  and  Days  "  as  supplying  the  needed  prosaic 
complement  to  the  heroic  ideal,  and  to  form  our 
picture*  of  the  early  Greek  life  by  combining  the  two. 
In  that  case  we  might  more  confidently  say  that  the 
later  historic  age  shows  progress  in  morals. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  some  of  the  proxi- 
mate causes  of  this  progress.  The  gnomes  of  the 
wise  men,  the  responses  of  oracles,  the  elevated 
utterances  of  poets  learnt  by  heart  in  boyhood  and 
often  afterwards  recalled  to  mind, — these  all  con- 
i  I.  21. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        15 

tributed  to  fix  a  higher  standard.  The  general 
advance  of  the  people  in  the  arts  of  life,  the  wider 
distribution  of  wealth,  the  establishment  of  some- 
thing like  a  system  of  law,  the  facilitation  of  inter- 
course between  different  communities,  —  all  these 
things  helped  to  make'  society  more  refined  and  to 
guide  the  actions  of  individuals  in  submission  to  the 
general  good.  Events  in  history,  notably  the  Persian 
War,  did  their  part  by  exciting  deep  feeling  and 
bringing  forth  shining  examples  of  heroism.  But 
back  of  all  these  there  must  have  been  some  cause 
or  combination  of  causes  which  determined  that  for 
a  time  the  progress  should  be  upward  and  not  down- 
ward. Why  were  they  able  to  accumulate  and  dis- 
tribute wealth  ?  Why  did  the  arts  flourish  and  law 
prevail  ?  Why  did  poets  and  wise  men  of  such  char- 
acter appear  ?  I  do  not  know  that  any  answer  I 
could  give  would  be  other  than  a  modification  or  an 
imitation  of  Bagehot's  1  exposition  of  the  difference 
between  progressive  and  stationary  nations.  The 
progressive  nations,  to  state  his  view  briefly,  are 
such  as  are  able  to  form  for  themselves  in  their 
infancy  a  framework  of  institutions  strong  enough  to 
hold  them  together  and  support  their  first  steps,  and 
at  the  same  time  are  able  also  to  modify  those  insti- 
tutions so  as  to  adapt  them  to  the  needs  of  their 
further  growth.  That  the  Greeks  possessed  this 
combination  of  capacities  in  prehistoric  time  is  suffi- 
ciently evident  from  the  effects  and  even  the  linger- 

1  Physics  and  Politics. 


1 6  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

ing  remains  of  it  in  the  period  of  history.  Applying 
an  imitation  of  this  theory  to  a  single  part  of  their 
complex  life,  we  may  say  that  the  Greeks  as  a  people 
were  able  to  build  up  a  system  of  usages  and  of  prin- 
ciples based  thereon,  which  supported  and  shaped, 
without  hampering,  the  character  of  the  individual. 
Their  sense  of  proportion  and  moderation,  their  love 
of  freedom,  their  clear-headedness,  their  power  of 
reasoning  on  abstract  principles,  —  these  qualities,  it 
may  be,  guided  them  between  a  rigid  caste  system, 
of  which  there  are  some  faint  traces  in  their  life,  and 
a  rude  barbarian  license.  This  is  only  saying  in 
other  words,  that  something  in  the  combination  of 
stock  and  surroundings  made  possible  for  them  the 
attainment  of  a  good  result.  Perhaps  no  answer 
would  amount  to  very  much  more. 

How  good  was  the  result  ?  Can  we  in  any  degree 
estimate  the  value  of  the  Greek  system  of  morals  in 
its  best  state  ?  Can  we  say  what  rank  it  takes 
among  different  systems  known  to  us  ?  If  we  under- 
take to  do  that,  two  cautions  must  be  borne  in  mind, 
(i)  We  must  be  careful  not  to  think  of  the  Greeks 
as  exactly  like  ourselves  and  to  be  judged  by  the 
same  standards.  It  is  necessary  to  make  a  real  effort 
of  imagination  to  understand  the  stock  of  ideas,  the 
framework  of  conceptions  and  assumptions,  that  was 
in  the  Greek  mind,  before  we  can  rightly  estimate 
the  actions  based  upon  that  state  of  mind.  (2)  On 
the  other  hand,  we  must  take  care  not  to  think  that 
they  were  wholly  different  from  ourselves.  It  is  not 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        1 7 

only  that  they  had  the  qualities  which  seem  to  be 
wellnigh  universal  and  may  be  called  fundamental 
in  human  nature,  such  as  selfishness  and  avarice,  or 
parental  affection  and  conscience.  More  than  that, 
they  reached  a  point  of  civilization,  that  is,  the 
Athenians  and  a  few  other  states  did,  in  many 
respects  strikingly  like  that  of  modern  times.  In 
this  fact  it  is  involved  that  their  moral  condition, 
their  virtues  and  their  besetting  vices,  were  not 
unlike  ours.  It  has  often  been  noticed  how  very 
modern  in  some  things  and  how  remote  in  others  the 
life  of  Athens  appears  to  us  when  we  come  to  know 
it  a  little.  For  one  thing  they  were  very  much  like 
us  in  that  their  theory  of  morals  was  considerably 
better  than  their  practice.  Not  only  from  the  pro- 
fessed moralists,  but  from  common  men,  even  from 
the  unblushing  scamps  on  the  stage  of  comedy,  we 
have  the  most  edifying  sentiments  expressed  and 
immediately  forgotten  when  they  come  to  action. 
Of  course  the  only  proper  way  to  compare  the  moral 
conditions  of  different  peoples  is  to  put  theory  by 
theory  and  practice  by  practice  and  look  at  each  pair 
separately.  To  match  the  theory  of  one's  own  coun- 
try with  the  practice  of  another  is  simply  a  cheap 
self -glorifying.  In  many  respects  the  theory  of  Greek 
morals,  if  we  look  at  its  highest  reach,  was  not  very 
different  from  our  own  best  theory.  That  truth  was 
recognized  as  right  and  falsehood  as  wrong,  we  see 
in  the  literature  abundantly  from  Homer  through 
Solon,  Mimnermos,  Herodotos,  the  dramatists,  down 


1 8  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

to  Plato.  So  family  affection,  courage,  patriotism, 
temperance,  justice,  reverence,  —  all  such  virtues  are 
praised  and  the  correlative  vices  condemned.  In 
some  respects,  however,  there  is  a  difference.  In  the 
matter  of  bodily  purity  the  best  standard  of  the 
Greeks  was  low.  Revenge  is  an  admitted  privilege 
or  duty,  until  we  come  to  Plato,  who  first  gives  a  hint 
of  a  nobler  conception.  The  passive  virtues,  such  as 
meekness  and  gentleness,  are  ignored.  Charity  in 
the  form  of  benevolence  we  know  was  practiced,  yet 
we  hardly  find  it  inculcated  as  a  duty,  unless  it  is  to 
be  recognized  in  the  sacredness  of  the  suppliant.  If 
we  look  at  the  general  principle  of  Greek  morality, 
as  indicated  by  some  of  its  best  exponents,  we  must 
admit  that  it  is  a  somewhat  self-regarding  system. 
It  is  built  up  on  an  idea  of  fitness  rather  than  of 
right.  It  has  in  some  respects  a  curiously  unfinished 
look,  lacking  high  motives  and  seeming  like  an  ex- 
periment, a  tentative  sketch  of  what  might  be  worked 
up  into  a  grand  scheme.  As  to  the  other  question, 
how  in  the  practice  of  its  moral  theories  the  commu- 
nity of  Athens,  for  instance,  would  compare  with  any 
modern  community,  I  must  confess  myself  unable  to 
venture  an  answer.  It  would  require  more  extensive 
investigation  and  combination  than  I  have  been  able 
yet  to  undertake.  It  seems  foolish  to  enter  upon 
any  such  comparison  with  the  idea  that  either  of  the 
two  objects  compared  is  to  be  praised  at  the  expense 
of  the  other.  We  ought  rather  by  this  time  to  rec- 
ognize that  different  peoples  in  different  periods  have 


MORALITY   AND    RELIGION    OF   THE    GREEKS.        IQ 

differing  phases  of  morality,  and  to  be  content  with 
ascertaining  the  points  of  distinction  without  trying 
to  exalt  or  depress  either. 

Another  question  suggests  itself  at  this  point. 
What  was  the  relation  of  the  morality  of  the  Greeks 
to  their  religion  ?  How  far  had  the  sanction  of  relig- 
ion any  force  to  strengthen  the  moral  sentiment  ? 
These  questions  are  difficult  to  answer.  They  would 
be  so  in  the  case  of  any  people  in  any  age.  Con- 
sider for  instance  the  English  people  in  the  time  of 
the  great  religious  and  political  struggle  called  the 
Reformation,  or  in  the  age  of  Queen  Anne,  when 
the  question  of  the  succession  was  so  closely  involved 
with  the  disputes  of  sects  and  parties  in  the  Church. 
How  difficult  it  is,  with  all  our  sources  of  informa- 
tion, in  these  recent  and  prominent  epochs,  to  form 
an  opinion  how  far  religion  exerted  an  influence  on 
private  life.  The  opinion  is  often  expressed  that 
there  was,  certainly  as  late  as  the  time  of  Demos- 
thenes, a  complete  separation  in  the  Greek  mind 
between  the  ideas  of  religion  and  of  practical  morals. 
Thus  Mahaffy l  speaks  of  the  Theogony  of  Hesiod  as 
"  showing  the  changing  attitude  of  the  Greek  relig- 
ion by  which  it  was  ultimately  dissociated  from 
ethics  and  gradually  reduced  to  a  mere  collection  of 
dogmas  and  ritual."  Gladstone2  speaks  of  the 
"  tendency  of  the  Pagan  religion  to  become  the  chief 
corrupter  of  morality,  or,  to  speak  perhaps  more 

1  History  of  Greek  Literature,  I.  p.  r  10. 

2  Quoted  by  Merry  on  Od.  8  :  267. 


20         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

accurately,  to  afford  the  medium  through  which  the 
forces  of  evil  and  the  downward  inclination  would 
principally  act  for  the  purpose  of  depraving  it."  In 
a  different  spirit  and  with  more  truth  Myers l  in  his 
essay  on  Aeschylos  says,  "Among  the  Hellenes 
morality  grew  up  separate  from  religion,  and  then, 
as  it  were,  turned  to  it  to  demand  its  aid."  Still 
more  justly  Abbott,2  "The  religious  conceptions  of 
the  Greeks  became  ethical  at  an  early  period  and 
continued  to  be  so  to  the  last,  ever  growing  higher 
and  higher  as  the  conception  of  life  and  duty  became 
more  elevated."  These  opinions  differ  widely  enough 
from  one  another,  yet  no  one  of  them  can  be  wholly 
denied  or  wholly  accepted.  Here  as  before  the  way 
to  reach  the  safest  judgment  is  to  collect  and  exam- 
ine the  facts  so  far  as  there  are  facts  attainable.  At 
present  I  can  only  indicate  some  of  the  conclusions 
which  I  think  such  an  investigation  would  establish, 
although  this  special  topic  has  never,  so  far  as  I 
know,  been  fully  treated.  We  may  see  one  form  of 
direct  influence  in  the  positive  power  of  oaths.  To 
be  sure,  they  were  often  violated,  but  we  must 
remember  that  it  is  the  violations  that  attract  atten- 
tion and  go  on  record.  The  additional  sanction  given 
by  an  oath  to  a  promise  or  assertion  was  universally 
recognized,  as  appears  from  the  disgrace  attached  to 
the  name  of  perjurer.  Suicide  was  looked  upon  as 
a  sin  against  the  gods ;  for  the  effort  of  the  philoso- 
pher to  explain  the  theory  implies  the  existence  of 
1  Hellenica,  p.  15.  2  Essay  on  Sophokles,  Hellenica,  p.  38. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        21 

the  opinion.  At  least  Plato's l  explanations  look 
altogether  towards  the  gods,  while  Aristotle  2  speaks 
only  of  the  injury  done  to  the  state.  The  word 
v/3pt<>  in  its  general  use,  not  as  a  technical  term  of 
law  but  as  a  description  of  a  quality  of  character, 
includes  self-confidence,  recklessness,  defiance  of 
decency  and  public  opinion,  as  all  having  the  com- 
mon element  of  excess  and  overstepping  due  bounds. 
The  conduct  thus  described,  though  involving  no 
breach  of  human  law,  was  yet  condemned  by  com- 
mon opinion  and  dreaded  as  rendering  one  liable  to 
divine  displeasure.  Many  duties,  such  as  those  of  hos- 
pitality, pity  for  suppliants,  family  affection,  were 
enforced  by  appeals  to  the  god  whose  titles,  £eVto9, 
tKeT)j(Tios,  f-'pfceios,  show  his  direct  relation  to  human 
duty.  In  such  matters  as  these  we  see,  I  think, 
direct  and  positive  influence  from  religious  belief 
upon  conduct.  And  I  have  omitted,  you  will  observe, 
all  those  classes  of  actions  which  are  made  immoral 
by  the  special  institution  of  religion,  such  as  particu- 
lar forms  of  sacrilege,  and  all  such  as  are  condemned 
by  civil  law,  because  I  desired  to  mention  only  cases 
wherein  religion  by  itself  gave  sanction  to  what  all 
men  regard  as  belonging  to  universal  morality.  How 
should  we  find  it  if  we  look  at  other  matters  of  daily 
life  still  within  the  domain  of  universal  morality  ? 
How  far  were  simple  truth  without  an  oath,  chastity, 
courage,  temperance,  and  the  like  inculcated  and 
practiced  from  religious  motives?  Here  especially 
1  Phaedo,  61  D-62  E.  2  Etb.  Nicom.  V.  15. 


22  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

we  should  seek  the  evidence  of  actual  incidents  and 
carefully  criticised  expressions  of  sentiment.  It 
would  probably  indicate  that  the  conception  of  relig* 
ion  as  a  distinct  motive  power  available  as  a  sanc- 
tion of  moral  duty  was  not  yet  fully  formed  and 
developed  in  the  consciousness  of  the  mass  of  men. 
The  two  ideas,  duty  and  religion,  "We  must  do  what 
is  right "  and  "  Let  us  worship  and  obey  the  gods," 
were  both  in  the  Greek  mind.  They  may  have  come 
from  different  sources.  They  appear  to  have  had 
different  stages  and  rates  of  development.  But  they 
approached  each  other,  and  at  the  climax  of  Greek 
history  they  met,  at  least  in  some  such  souls  as  that 
of  Xenophon  and  probably  other  followers  of  Sokra- 
tes.  But  with  the  mass  of  men  these  two  ideas 
perhaps  remained  always  somewhat  separate,  very 
much  as  they  are  often  kept  apart  in  modern  times. 
It  does  not  seem  that  the  gulf  between  them  was 
particularly  wide  in  the  case  of  the  Greeks,  so  that 
no  modern  parallel  to  it  could  be  found,  yet  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  there  were  elements  in  the  history 
and  spirit  of  their  religion  which  made  such  a  sepa- 
ration easy  and  legitimate. 

After  all,  what  was  the  character  of  the  Greek 
religion  ?  On  this  subject  much  has  been  written 
and  many  unwarranted  statements  made.  We  are 
told  that  it  was  a  worship  of  beauty ;  that  it  was  a 
worship  of  nature ;  that  it  was  a  mixture  of  local 
hero-worship  and  foreign  superstition,  with  reminis- 
cences of  Hebrew  tradition  and  anticipations  of 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        23 

Christian  doctrine  grotesquely  intermingled  ;  that  it 
was  a  simple  and  enviable  flowering  out  of  human 
nature  unhampered  by  sense  of  sin  or  dread  of  a 
future ;  that  it  was  a  profound  system  of  truth,  con- 
cealing under  apparently  simple  stories  the  greatest 
mysteries  of  the  visible  and  invisible  worlds.1  For 
each  of  these  and  other  like  statements,  there  is 
some  show  of  proof,  yet  they  can  hardly  all  be  true. 
That  so  many  differing  views  may  be  taken  is  due  in 
part  to  the  difficulty  of  ascertaining  the  truth.  It  is 
difficult  enough  to  frame  a  clear  conception  and  pre- 
cise description  of  any  religion  held  by  civilized  men, 
but  there  are  reasons  why  it  is  especially  so  in  the 
case  of  the  religion  of  the  Greeks.  It  had  no  stand- 
ards, no  creed,  no  generally  accepted  head  to  control 
and  coordinate  local  varieties.  It  was  nearly  always 
hospitable  to  the  beliefs  and  rituals  of  other  peoples, 
and  was  itself  as  composite  as  the  stock  of  the  tribes 
which  made  up  the  nation.  It  inherited  a  mythology 
from  an  unknown  past,  some  features  of  which  it 
always  retained,  modifying  only  the  interpretation  of 
them,  and  others  it  expanded  and  enriched  to  adapt 
them  to  the  changes  in  the  civilization  and  moral 
sense  of  the  people.  It  embraced  without  fatal  dis- 
cord the  most  widely  divergent  views  and  disposi- 
tions towards  the  gods,  including  in  one  fold  the 
stern  devout  Puritanism  of  Aeschylos  and  the  scoffing 
obscene  Puritanism  (strange  as  this  description  may 

1  See  among  others,  Preller,  Petersen,  Gladstone,  Symonds,  Bunsen, 
Raskin. 


24          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

seem)  of  Aristophanes.  Even  in  the  same  mind  it 
allowed  the  reverent  adoration  of  Zeus  and  the  sub- 
lime conception  of  his  nature  expressed  in  the  first 
chorus  of  the  Agamemnon  to  coexist  with  the  repre- 
sentation of  him  in  the  Prometheus  as  being  in  the 
early  part  of  his  reign  a  cruel,  licentious,  and  short- 
sighted tyrant.  Of  such  a  religion  it  seems  impos- 
sible to  get  at  any  central  and  governing  principle, 
to  find  any  doctrine  or  spirit  which  runs  through  all 
its  manifestations  and  unites  them  all. 

A  religion  may  be  studied  either  historically  or 
comparatively,  either  by  tracing  its  own  growth 
through  successive  stages  or  by  comparing  it  with 
other  religions.  It  seems  clear  that  in  the  case  of  the 
Greek  religion  the  former  method  ought  to  precede 
the  latter  and  to  control  all  its  processes.  For  this 
religion  was  in  a  remarkable  degree  a  growing  and 
changing  one.  Wherever  we  look  at  two  points  in  its 
history,  between  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  between 
Hesiod  and  Pindar,  between  the  Persian  and  the 
Peloponnesian  wars,  between  Plato  and  Polybios  and 
on  to  Plutarch,  we  still  see  change.  What  is  true  of 
one  period  is  not  true,  or  true  only  with  many  qualifi- 
cations, of  another.  A  comparison  which  brought 
into  view  only  one  period  of  the  Greek  religion 
would  not  be  very  fruitful ;  one  which  neglected  the 
succession  of  different  periods  would  surely  lead  to 
erroneous  conclusions.  As  to  the  individual  deities 
in  many  cases  there  is  a  history  which  must  be  traced 
out  before  we  can  understand  the  worship,  the  rela- 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        25 

tions  of  one  deity  to  another,  the  local  connections. 
In  this  field  much  remains  to  be  done  on  the  plan 
adopted  by  Ernst  Curtius,  Kuhn,  Roscher,  and  others. 
If  we  look  at  the  Greek  religion  as  a  whole  histori- 
cally, we  are  carried  back  at  once  to  a  time  prior  to 
the  existence  of  the  separate  Greek  national  charac- 
ter. We  find  ourselves  obliged  to  go  to  the  Vedic 
hymns  and  try  to  learn  from  their  scanty  evidence 
what  the  Aryan  religion  was.  In  the  nature  of  the 
case  it  is  impossible  by  any  such  records  to  reach  the 
very  beginning,  for  the  earliest  period  can  leave  no 
record  behind  it,  but  it  is  as  far  as  we  can  go.  In  the 
hymns  of  the  Vedas  we  find  a  religious  system  with  a 
mythology  already  established.  For  a  brief  account 
of  it  I  depend  upon  the  same  authority  to  which  I 
have  already  referred,  that  of  Earth.  In  this  Vedic 
system  all  parts  of  nature  were  held  to  be  divine  and 
were  objects  of  worship.  But  this  is  true  mainly  of 
what  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  atmosphere,  for  the 
heavenly  bodies  are  comparatively  left  out  of  view. 
There  are  numerous  deities,  some  personifications  of 
powers  or  phenomena  of  earth  and  air,  in  which  the 
physical  element  has  almost  disappeared  in  the  per- 
sonal ;  others,  personifications  less  complete  of  ab- 
stract ideas  or  of  actions.  Each  of  these  in  turn  is 
addressed  as  chief,  and  the  same  powers  and  gifts  to 
men  are  ascribed  now  to  one,  now  to  another.  These 
deities  are  represented  as  acting  upon  the  same  mo- 
tives and  subject  to  the  same  passions  with  men.  The 
distinction  of  sex  exists  among  them,  but  there  is  as 


26          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

yet  no  organized  government,  nor  are  they  distinctly 
represented  in  human  form,  though  the  constant 
ascription  of  human  actions  to  them  implies  such 
forms.  They  are  immortal,  and  are  regarded  as  lofty 
and  holy  beings  whom  the  best  of  men  must  humbly 
worship.  It  is  plain  at  first  sight  that  this  system 
differs  in  many  respects  from  what  we  find  among 
the  Greeks  at  the  earliest  period  when  they  become 
known  to  us,  yet  on  the  other  hand  there  are  points 
of  resemblance  which  seem  to  warrant  the  belief  that 
the  two  have  a  common  origin.  For  instance,  certain 
names  of  deities  the  two  have  in  common,  although 
perhaps  the  only  clear  examples  are  Varuna  and 
Ovpavos,  Dyaus  and  Zeu<?.  It  is  remarkable  in  both 
cases  that  the  name  prominent  as  that  of  a  deity  in 
one  country  is  quite  subordinate  in  the  other.  Qvpavos 
has  no  prominence  in  Greek  mythology,  nor  Dyaus 
in  Vedic.  It  is  supposed  that  the  early  settlers  of  the 
Greek  peninsula  brought  with  them  a  form  of  this 
worship  of  the  powers  of  nature.  What  this  form 
was,  —  how  many  deities  there  were,  how  fully  they 
were  personified,  by  what  rites  they  were  worshiped 
—  we  do  not  seem  to  have  any  means  of  knowing. 
Herodotos  (2:52)  tells  us  that  the  Pelasgians  had  no 
names  for  their  gods  until  they  borrowed  them  from 
the  Egyptians.  If  we  combine  this  guess  of  his  with 
the  fact  that  in  Homer  there  is  but  one  obscure  refer- 
ence1 to  an  image  of  a  deity,  we  may  infer  that  the 
ancestors  of  the  Greeks,  like  the  singers  of  the  Vedic 
111.6:273. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        2/ 

hymns,  had  no  representations  of  their  gods  and  even 
a  less  elaborate  mythology  than  they.  As  time  went 
on,  the  number  of  deities  was  increased,  in  part  by 
real  additions,  in  part  by  the  re-introduction  of  the 
same  deity  under  a  new  name.  Thus  Dionysos  comes 
in  as  a  wholly  new  figure  apparently,  and  even  as  late 
as  the  time  of  the  Homeric  poems  has  not  won  full 
recognition.  And  the  Greeks,like  the  Aryans  of  the 
Veda,  began  to  personify  human  feelings  and  func- 
tions, social  principles,  and  even  abstract  qualities. 
On  the  other  hand,  Ernst  Curtius  has  traced1  the 
progress  of  the  worship  of  a  Semitic  goddess  from 
point  to  point  along  the  lines  of  trade,  whom  the 
Greeks  came  to  know  and  adopted  under  several  dif- 
ferent names,  as  Aphrodite,  Hera,  Artemis,  and  per- 
haps Athene,  with  different  forms  of  worship.  This 
multiplication  of  deities  was  not  wholy  due  to  a  mys- 
terious impulse  in  the  Greek  mind  towards  polythe- 
ism, but  in  large  measure  to  an  early  separation  into 
small  communities  and  a  subsequent  combination  into 
larger  aggregates.  Each  small  community,  shut  in 
by  its  surrounding  hills,  developed  its  own  form  of 
worship,  attaching  its  own  epithet  to  the  common 
name  of  the  god  of  sky  or  sea,  and  perhaps  also  deify- 
ing its  local  hero.  When  intercourse  began  its  work, 
these  all  obtained  a  sort  of  recognition  and  a  place  in 
the  great  family  of  gods.  Thus  the  many  wives  of 
Zeus  are  evidences  of  so  many  local  myths,  which  the 
poets  perhaps  were  the  first  to  gather  and  combine 

1  Preussische  Jahrbucher,  1875,  p.  I. 


28          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

into  one  story.  To  the  influence  of  the  poets,  or  to 
the  vivid  defining  imagination  of  the  race,  of  which 
they  are  only  choice  examples,  is  due  also  the  anthropo- 
morphizing tendency  which  is  so  prominent  in  the 
Greek  mythology.  As  has  been  already  hinted,  the 
difference  here  between  the  Greeks  and  other  peoples 
is  only  one  of  degree.  All  peoples  anthropomorphize 
in  some  measure.  The  Veclic  hymns  ascribe  human 
motives  and  passions  and  needs  to  the  gods,  but,  with 
a  lack  of  logical  sequence,  they  leave  the  form  of  the 
individual  comparatively  vague  and  mysterious.  The 
Hebrew  Bible  does  the  same,  coming  a  little  nearer 
in  some  respects  to  the  Greeks.  But  the  Greeks, 
obeying  at  once  their  reason  and  their  lively  fancy, 
went  on  and  pictured  to  themselves  each  god  in  dis- 
tinct and  beautiful  human  form.  Here  came  in  the 
plastic  and  pictorial  arts  with  powerful  aid  as  soon 
as  they  grew  to  perfection.  Petersen1  has  remarked 
how  in  the  age  of  Perikles  sculpture  reached  its  height, 
just  before  the  wave  of  skepticism  came,  so  as  to  fix 
in  the  minds  of  the  people  the  forms  of  the  gods  and 
to  provide  beauty  as  a  suggestion  of  holiness.  But 
the  arts  were  only  secondary  and  subsequent  in  this 
work.  Each  deity  must  have  been  clearly  conceived 
and  defined  in  form  and  attributes  before  the  painter 
or  sculptor  represented  him  to  the  eye.  When  this 
was  done,  it  was  a  great  help  to  the  slower  minds 
in  imagining  the  person ;  but  we  must  not  think  of 
these  arts  as  original  causes  of  anthropomorphism. 

1  Ersch  und  Gruber,  I.  Griech.  Mythologie,  p.  155. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        2Q 

One  such  original  cause  was  perhaps  the  cheerful, 
society-loving  temper  of  the  early  Greek,  encouraged 
by  the  sunny  and  temperate  skies  above  him.  He 
easily  thought  of  his  god  as  coming  near  to  him  in 
life  and  pursuits,  and  was  ready  to  welcome  him  if  he 
would  appear  at  his  own  festival,  where  a  part  of  the 
victim  was  always  assigned  to  him.  Every  festival, 
and  even  ordinary  meals,  had  a  religious  element. 
All  through  the  better  time  of  the  Greek  religion 
there  is  a  tone  of  simple  gladness,  a  sort  of  consecra- 
tion of  physical  and  social  happiness,  which  may  have 
weakened  its  moral  influence  in  one  direction  but 
must  have  strengthened  it  in  another.  Thus  conceiv- 
ing their  gods  as  individually  and  socially  like  them- 
selves, they  wrought  out  in  imagination  a  complete 
parallel  above  to  their  life  below,  a  city  in  the 
heavens.  The  book  of  Genesis  tells  us  that  man  was 
made  in  the  image  of  God.  Aristotle1  supplies  the 
counterpart  to  this  by  his  observation  that  the  Greeks 
made  their  gods  in  their  own  image.  It  would  follow 
naturally  from  this  that  as  the  character  of  the  people 
developed  and  improved,  as  their  theory  of  an  ideal 
society,  their  conception  of  possible  excellencies  of 
character,  even  their  knowledge  of  the  extent  of  the 
world  and  the  complications  of  its  government,  ad- 
vanced, so  would  their  ideas  of  the  gods  be  corre- 
spondingly elevated.  Perhaps  the  most  prominent 
agents  in  this  upward  movement,  or  embodiments  of 
the  spirit  that  caused  it,  were  the  Delphic  oracle  and 
the  tragic  poets  of  Athens.  The  part  taken  by  the 
1  Pol.  i,  2,  p.  1252  b. 


3O  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

oracle  in  promoting  civilization  and  elevating  in  many 
ways  the  life  of  the  Greeks  has  been  most  elaborately 
set  forth  by  Ernst  Curtius,  especially  in  his  History  of 
Greece.1  There  was  one  special  and  remarkable  out- 
growth of  the  Greek  religion,  apparently  connected 
closely  with  the  oracle,  which,  I  think  I  may  venture 
to  say,  demands  more  study  than  it  has  yet  received. 
This  is  briefly  the  belief  in  Apollo,  not  simply  as  the 
revealer  of  the  hidden  will  of  Zeus,  but  as  the  agent 
of  purification  to  the  soul.  From  this  seems  to  have 
grown  up,  if  not  a  formulated  system  of  doctrine,  yet 
a  strong  faith  in  the  power  of  the  god  to  bring  about 
an  atonement,  a  reconciliation  between  the  sinner  and 
the  divine  wrath  against  sin  ;  a  faith  which  marks 
the  highest  point  of  practical  religion  reached  by  the 
Greeks.  It  is  most  strikingly  exhibited  to  us  in  the 
two  cases  of  Orestes  and  Oedipus.  These  cases  show 
us  also  how  the  tragic  poets  could  contribute  to  the 
upward  movement  of  the  Greek  religion.  Plato  felt 
obliged  by  his  theory  to  exclude  them  from  his  ideal 
state,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  "find  two  men  who 
would  more  heartily  have  sympathized  with  his  aspi- 
rations, when  translated  from  the  language  of  his  phi- 
losophy into  that  of  their  poetry,  than  Aeschylos  and 
Sophokles.  It  would  also  be  hard  to  find  two  who 
exercised  a  wider  influence  to  prepare  man  for  his 
elevated  views  than  they.  The  Apolline  religion 
apparently  grew  out  of  the  Dorian  worship  of  the 
god,  but  it  found  a  welcome  among  the  lonians,  and 

1  Curtius,  History  of  Greece,  Bk.  II.  Ch.  IV. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        3! 

this  illustrates  how  the  oracle  at  Delphi  was  one 
of  the  main  causes  of  whatever  national  union  the 
Greeks  achieved.  It  must  not  be  supposed,  however, 
that  this  prominence  of  Apollo  superseded  the  Olym- 
pian theology.  It  grew  out  of  that  system  and  came 
to  be  the  most  vital  part  of  it,  but  never  ceased  to  be 
a  part.  Apollo  himself  is  always  the  son  of  Zeus  and, 
in  this  his  noblest  work,  the  agent  of  the  will  of  his 
father.  Zeus  remains  to  the  end  the  supreme  god  of 
the  Greek  religion,  and  often  the  expressions  used  in 
regard  to  him,  if  they  stood  alone,  might  fairly  be 
regarded  as  evidence  of  monotheism.  This  was  the 
culmination  of  the  Greek  religion,  and  then  of  course 
came  the  decline.  But  we  must  not  suppose  that  the 
decline  began  at  once.  The  life  of  ancient  Greece 
often  seems  to  us  to  come  to  an  end  with  the  death  of 
Demosthenes  and  Aristotle.  The  art,  the  literature, 
the  philosophy,  the  free  political  action,  —  of  all  these 
there  seems  to  be  almost  nothing  after  300  B.  c.,  to 
interest  most  of  us,  and  so  we  are  apt  to  think  that 
the  religion  too  sank  at  once  into  a  degraded  condi- 
tion into  which  we  need  not  care  to  follow  its  history. 
But  it  had  a  tougher  life  than  they,  and  there  are 
indications  that  it  continued  during  the  following  cen- 
turies with  undiminished  pomp  of  observance  and,  if 
costly  offerings  are  any  sign,  kept  still  some  hold 
upon  the  hearts  of  the  worshipers.  Here,  more  than 
anywhere,  the  information  as  to  the  actual  working  of 
moral  and  religious  ideas  is  yet  to  be  gathered  from 
inscriptions,  institutions,  and  incidents  of  daily  life. 


32  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

But  we  may  well  believe  that  the  religion  was  all  this 
time  losing  its  vigor,  since  the  fresh  flow  of  poetic 
inspiration  and  the  hopeful  energy  of  independent 
political  life  had  ceased  to  feed  and  to  sustain  it. 
For  this  Greek  religion  had  been  so  shaped  by  the 
poets  in  its  growth,  and  was  so  involved  with  the 
functions  and  legal  rights  of  the  state  governments, 
that  the  decay  or  crippling  of  these  two  supports 
must  affect  it  seriously.  It  would  be  asking  too  much 
of  a  religion  with  no  higher  source  than  it  had,  to  ex- 
pect it  to  do  much  to  preserve  the  national  life  from 
decay  when  external  causes  of  such  resistless  power 
were  at  hand  to  destroy  it. 

Now  if  some  such  meagre  outline  of  the  history  of 
the  matter  is  in  general  true,  it  shows  clearly  that  the 
Greek  religion  was  not  a  worship  of  beauty.  This 
idea  seems  to  have  for  its  foundation  nothing  but  a 
few  instances  of  semidivine  honors  paid  to  persons 
of  striking  beauty  and  the  fact  that  as  a  people  the 
Greeks  were  remarkably  sensitive  to  the  influence  and 
obedient  to  the  laws  of  the  beautiful.  But  in  reality 
this  quality  entered  no  more  into  their  religion  than 
into  their  literature  and  their  architecture  and  all 
their  art.  It  was  for  them  impossible,  we  may  almost 
say,  to  cultivate  any  form  of  intellectual  or  spiritual 
activity  without  manifesting  in  it  and  impressing 
upon  it  their  delicate  and  correct  feeling  of  grace  and 
proportion.  Neither  was  the  Greek  religion  a  wor- 
ship of  nature.  That  was  an  element  in  it,  at  one 
time,  probably  the  chief  element  or  rather  the  germ 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        33 

out  of  which  it  all  grew.  But  during  all  the  time  of 
which  we  have  knowledge,  this  original  character  is 
lost  out  of  sight  entirely,  surviving  only  in  a  few  faint 
traces,  and  the  names  which  at  the  first  designated 
powers  of  nature  have  come  to  stand  for  a  totally  dif- 
ferent order  of  conceptions.  We  might  as  well  say 
that  an  oak  is  really  an  acorn  as  that  the  Greek  re- 
ligion is  after  all  a  nature -worship.  Nor  was  it,  as  we 
are  sometimes  told,  a  display  of  human  nature  un- 
clothed and  unabashed,  acting  itself  out  in  the  joyous 
innocent  unconsciousness  of  infancy.  From  the  very 
first,  in  order  to  have  a  raison  d'etre,  it  must  have 
recognized  the  helplessness  of  man,  the  dread  of 
an  offended  superior  power,  the  need  of  an  effort  to 
please  an  unseen  being.  And  all  through  the  litera- 
ture of  Greece  is  felt  the  sterner  strain  that  distin- 
guishes the  man  from  the  child,  —  a  sense  of  duty 
and  of  responsibility  for  the  discharge  of  duty  —  ap- 
pearing in  Homer,  rising  to  its  highest  expression  in 
Aeschylos,  not  wholly  lost  in  Aristophanes,  translated 
into  the  love  of  the  supreme  idea  by  Plato,  and  for- 
mulated with  mathematical  precision  by  Aristotle. 
Yet  once  more,  we  do  not  find  in  the  Greek  myths 
profound  truths  disguised  as  fables.  It  is  possible, 
no  doubt,  to  read  such  truths  into  them  and  to  urge  in 
defense  of  the  practice  the  use  of  the  same  simple 
stories  by  the  tragic  poets  as  the  vehicles  of  their 
noble  thoughts.  But  that  example  does  not  justify 
the  detection  in  the  myths  of  wonderful  correspond- 
encies with  facts  not  known  till  centuries  later  and  of 


34  STUDIES    IN    GREEK     THOUGHT. 

the  most  ingenious  selection  of  names  and  incidents 
so  as  to  hide  deep  thoughts  from  all  but  the  discov- 
erer and  reveal  them  unerringly  to  him.  The  myth 
of  Prometheus  is  perhaps  the  most  frequent  victim  of 
such  speculations,  and  shows  what  tortures  a  poor 
myth,  stretched  on  the  rack  of  hypothesis  and  torn 
to  furnish  food  for  many  more  than  two  fierce  con- 
structors of  theories,  may  be  made  to  undergo.  But 
all  this  interpreting  is  an  inversion  of  the  order  of 
time.  Unless  these  myths  were  imparted  by  inspira- 
tion from  some  superhuman  wisdom,  we  cannot  rea- 
sonably suppose  them  intended  to  convey  so  much 
profound  and  abstract  truth. 

I  have  been  led  to  speak  of  the  myths,  whereas  I 
began  to  speak  of  the  religion.  Is  it  possible  wholly 
to  divorce  the  two  ?  Is  it  possible  to  form  an  opinion 
of  a  religion  without  looking  at  the  conception  which 
it  presents  of  its  objects  of  worship,  its  gods,  and  can 
we  look  at  the  gods  of  Greece  without  taking  into 
our  view  the  myths  ?  There  are  three  elements  —  dis- 
tinguishable in  thought  but  so  closely  connected  that 
the  discussion  of  one  always  tends  to  pass  over  into 
that  of  another  —  in  the  relation  of  any  people  to  the 
superhuman  world  as  they  conceive  it.  These  are 
the  theology  or  mythology  (that  is,  the  description 
and  history  of  the  divine),  the  morality  (that  is,  the 
system  of  duty  among  men),  and  the  religion  in  a 
specific  sense  (by  which  I  mean  the  sanction  which 
the  belief  in  the  divine  gives  to  morality).  I  leave 
out  of  consideration  the  worship  as  foreign  to  my 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        35 

subject.  Now  if  we  try  to  estimate  the  result  of  these 
three  elements  in  the  case  of  the  Greeks,  we  find  it  to 
be  somewhat  as  follows,  I  think.  The  motive  cause  at 
the  bottom  of  the  whole  phenomenon  is  the  need  of 
man  for  an  object  of  worship  above  him.  That  is,  for 
us,  a  primal  need,  because  we  cannot  tell  whence  it 
arises.  Some  say  from  fear,  some  from  wonder,  some 
from  sense  of  sin,  some  from  material  dependence. 
Between  these  or  other  causes  we  have  at  present  no 
means  of  deciding,  and  therefore  we  may  be  justified 
in  saying  that  it  is,  so  far  as  we  can  tell,  primitive  and 
itself  a  cause.  TLavres  Se  Oewv^areovcr'  avOpwjrot,,  says 
the  Homeric  poet,1  —  words  dear  to  the  heart  of  Philip 
Melanchthon.  This  impulse  to  worship  in  the  minds 
of  the  ancestors  of  the  Greeks  produced,  if  we  can 
trust  the  best  evidence  we  have,  a  threefold  result,  — 
a  worship  of  the  powers  and  forms  of  nature  on  earth 
and  in  air,  a  worship  of  fire,  and  possibly,  a  worship 
of  the  dead.  This  inheritance  the  migrating  tribes 
brought  with  them  to  their  settlement  in  Europe,  and 
in  course  of  time  it  seems  to  have  become  localized 
and  humanized  and  systematized.  They  expanded  it 
by  adopting  deities  and  beliefs  and  ceremonies  from 
foreign  sources.  They  added  also  deities  whose 
names  seem  to  indicate  a  native  Greek  origin,  such 
as  Themis,  Peitho,  Metis,  and  other  personifications  of 
qualities  or  processes.  They  were  ready  to  see  the 
divine  agency  all  about  them,  or,  in  other  words,  they 
were,  with  some  notable  exceptions,  in  an  uncritical 

1  Od.  3 :  48.  "  All  men  have  need  of  the  gods." 


36  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

state  of  mind  as  to  the  authority  of  the  prevailing 
belief.  Their  conceptions  of  the  gods,  clear  and 
clean-cut  as  they  were  in  some  respects,  were  in 
others  vague,  elastic,  and  constantly  open  to  uncon- 
scious modification.  There  was  moreover  a  sense  of 
good-fellowship,  so  to  call  it,  in  much  of  their  inter- 
course with  the  gods,  which  it  is  hard  for  us  fully  to 
understand  and  yet  necessary  to  include  in  our  view 
if  it  is  to  be  a  true  one.  The  gods  were  thought  to 
sympathize  with  men  and  help  them  in  all  their  ex- 
periences of  joy  or  sorrow,  in  mere  sensual  pleasure 
as  well  as  in  the  highest  intellectual  or  moral  activi- 
ties. But  all  along  from  the  beginning,  or  perhaps 
from  some  later  point  and  cause  now  unknown  to  us, 
the  conception  of  these  divine  beings  was  just  suffi- 
ciently above  the  moral  standard  of  the  average  man 
to  exert  some  control  upon  him  and  to  help  him  and 
through  him  the  community  up  to  a  higher  level. 
We  cannot  doubt  that  Aeschylos  believed  that  the 
Zeus  to  whom  he  prayed,  whatever  he  might  have 
been  in  an  earlier  period  of  his  reign,  was  when  he 
prayed  to  him,  a  being  wiser  and  better  than  himself. 
We  cannot  doubt  that  Plato  felt  that  "  the  Idea  of  the 
Good "  was  continually  lifting  him  up  to  better 
thoughts  and  a  nobler  life.  Yet  each  of  these  men 
formed  in  his  own  mind  the  conception  of  the  being 
to  whom  his  worship  was  offered.  There  is  no  mar- 
vel or  self-delusion  in  this.  We  know  that  an  idea 
may  come  to  any  man,  with  or  without  recognized 
external  suggestion,  which  may  make  his  life  and 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        37 

character  ever  after  purer  and  better  than  it  was 
before.  In  this  way  we  can  understand  how  the 
religion  of  the  Greeks  was  elevated  by  the  improve- 
ment of  the  character  of  the  people  and  how  at  the 
same  time  it  was  continually  helping  to  elevate  in  its 
turn  the  character  of  the  people..  Certainly  the  ordi- 
nary citizen  of  Athens  did  not  habitually  think  of  the 
gods  as  Plato  and  Aeschylos  did  in  their  loftiest 
speculations,  but  he  must  have  thought  of  them  as 
above  himself  in  some  degree,  and  he  must  have  been 
helped  to  higher  views  by  what  he  could  hear  and 
understand  of  the  thoughts  of  the  great  minds. 

But  here  there  occurs  a  difficulty.  What  shall  we 
think  of  the  worship  of  Dionysos  and  that  of  Aphro- 
dite ?  They  seem  to  rest  upon  the  deification  of  two 
degrading  sensual  passions  which  can  only  lead  to  the 
indulgence  of  vice,  so  that  they  are  in  a  word  the 
consecration  of  vice,  and  how  could  there  be  any- 
thing elevating  in  them  or  in  a  system  which  tole- 
rated them  ?  It  would  be  foolish  to  try  to  defend 
these  practices  or  to  explain  them  away  by  imagining 
a  theory  of  morals  which  would  justify  them.  One 
thing  however  can  and  ought  to  be  said  to  qualify  in 
some  measure  the  impression  they  make  upon  us  as 
to  the  character  of  the  people  among  whom  they  pre- 
vailed. It  appears  altogether  probable  that  both 
these  forms  of  worship  were  introduced  from  other 
countries  and  that  there  was  originally  nothing  corre- 
sponding to  them  in  the  native  Greek  belief.  "  But 
they  were  adopted  by  the  Greeks."  Yes,  they  were 


38         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

adopted,  at  first  perhaps  because  a  divine  element, 
akin  to  that  of  other  nature-powers,  was  recognized 
in  the  myths  connected  with  these  deities.  Then  we 
may  suppose  that  the  worship  of  Dionysos  in  particu- 
lar became  so  prominent  and  popular  in  part  because 
it  harmonized  so  w^ll  with  the  festival  meetings  of 
neighbors  and  friends  which  the  Greeks  from  our 
earliest  knowledge  of  them  were  accustomed  to  con- 
nect with  religious  observances.  It  has  been  observed 
that  there  are  traces  and  relics  of  a  worship  of  Aphro- 
dite in  which  bodily  purity, l  and  a  worship  of 
Dionysos  in  which  sobriety,2  was  required  of  the 
worshipers.  The  gross  abuses  which  became  asso- 
ciated with  the  worship  of  these  deities  were  simply 
the  indulgence  of  low  passions  under  the  pretext  of 
religious  service.  It  is  folly,  as  I  have  already  said, 
to  try  to  construct  a  theory  of  the  innocent  deification 
of  everything  in  human  nature  which  will  hold  good 
for  the  Greeks  at  the  culmination  of  their  civilization. 
Indulgence  of  such  passions  was  not  indeed  con- 
demned by  them  in  their  best  estate  so  strongly  as  it 
has  been  in  modern  times,  that  is,  within  the  last  hun- 
dred years,  but  yet,  if  we  can  trust  at  all  their  litera- 
ture and  the  evidences  of  character  in  their  history, 
we  must  admit  that  it  was  condemned.  We  cannot 
too  positively  believe  and  affirm  that  such  excesses 
were  not  the  legitimate  product  of  a  distorted  idea  of 
religion,  but  the  abuse  of  a  natural  and  right  idea. 

1  Preller,  Griech.  Mythologie,  I.  p.  268. 

2  K.  F.  Hermann,  Culturgeschichte,  I.  p.  68. 


MORALITY    AND    RELIGION    OF    THE    GREEKS.        39 

The  history  of  the  Christian  church  can  show  abuses 
not  less  gross  but  only  less  public  and  more  incon- 
sistent with  its  general  character. 

So  then,  to  conclude,  if  we  look  thus  at  the  religion 
of  the  Greeks,  we  see  in  it  a  natural  development,  a 
close  connection  with  the  character  and  history  of  the 
people,  a  steady  progress  towards  a  not  unworthy 
ideal.  Compared  with  Christianity  in  its  highest 
forms,  compared  even  with  Buddhism  and  Mahome- 
tan ism  in  some  particulars,  it  appears  wavering  in  its 
conception  of  the  divine  being,  feeble  in  direct  moral 
influence,  and  much  too  tolerant  of  gross  vice.  Still 
I  believe  it  was  a  religion,  and  not  unworthy  of  the 
name,  that  is,  it  was  a  system  of  belief  as  to  the  rela- 
tion of  man  to  the  supernatural  world,  which  influ- 
enced him  in  his  conduct  and  influenced  him  in  a 
continually  increasing  measure  towards  reverence, 
integrity,  temperance,  justice,  and  good-will  to  his 
fellow-man.  It  was  more  social  and  external  in  char- 
acter than  agrees  with  the  highest  type  of  religion, 
but  it  must  have  had  even  to  the  common  man  a  per- 
sonal element  and  the  effect  of  an  inward  control,  or 
I  do  not  see  how  we  can  account  in  any  reasonable 
way  for  the  existence  of  the  civilized  society  of 
Athens  and  for  the  character  of  Sokrates. 


II. 

PLATO'S  ARGUMENTS  IN  THE  PHAEDO 

FOR  THE   IMMORTALITY  OF 

THE    SOUL. 

'THE  thoughts  of  such  a  mind  as  Plato's  on  such  a 
•*•  subject  as  the  immortality  of  the  soul  ought  natu- 
rally, it  would  seem,  to  be  of  interest  to  all  students  of  • 
the  history  of  mankind.  They  should  not  be  expected, 
of  course,  to  be  cast  in  exactly  the  forms  of  thinking 
of  our  own  day,  but  the  differences  which  we  find  in 
them  are  just  such  as  to  make  the  study  of  them 
interesting  and  stimulating.  In  many  respects  they 
are  remarkably  modern  ;  in  others  we  may  find  that 
though  the  form  is  different  the  substance  is  the 
same.  It  is  often  the  case  that  truths  have  to  be 
restated  in  a  new  form  for  each  successive  genera- 
tion of  thinkers.  The  same  idea  presents  itself 
differently  at  different  times,  and  sometimes  even 
what  may  appear  strange  to  us  when  said  by  one  of 
a  former  generation  is  really  what  we  ourselves  are 
thinking  and  stating  in  a  form  of  our  own.  In  the 
following  pages  the  attempt  is  made  to  state  with 
the  utmost  exactness  the  several  arguments  that  Plato 
advances  to  prove  what  he  wishes  to  believe,  —  add- 
ing a  fe,w  words  of  criticism,  only  so  much  as  seems 
needful  to  the  understanding  of  his  thought.  There 


42  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

has  been  some  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  number 
of  his  arguments.  Some,  finding  the  doctrine  of 
Ideas  present  in  several  of  these  arguments,  reduce 
the  number  to  one,  or  at  most,  two.  Others,  mistak- 
ing the  answer  to  one  of  the  objections  for  an  in- 
dependent argument,  raise  the  number  to  five.  We 
have  followed  the  plain  indications  in  the  structure 
of  the  dialogue  in  presenting  four  arguments. 

I.  Plato's  first  argument  is  a  probability  based 
upon  the  doctrine  of  procession  of  contraries  each 
from  its  opposite.  There  is  an  old  doctrine,  he  says, 
that  the  living  proceed  from  the  dead.  As  we  know 
that  the  dead  proceed  from  the  living  (i.e.,  the  living 
pass  into,  become,  the  dead),  then  if  the  old  doctrine 
be  true,  this  is  a  case  of  the  alternation  of  oppo- 
sites,  a  sort  of  cycle  passing  continually  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other,  and  so  back  and  forth.  The 
probability  of  such  a  circular  movement  he  proceeds 
to  prove  in  three  ways,  —  by  analogy,  by  the  presumed 
symmetry  of  nature,  and  by  a  reductio  ad  absurdum. 

(a)  By  analogy.  Here  he  gives  a  number  of  in- 
stances, first  of  opposite  pairs  of  things,  such  as  good 
and  bad,  just  and  unjust,  and  then  of  evident  and 
necessary  passage  from  one  of  these  to  the  other. 
Thus  a  thing  cannot  become  larger  except  by  passing 
out  of  a  previous  state  of  being  smaller,  nor  heavier 
except  by  passing  out  of  a  previous  state  of  being 
lighter,  etc.  Here  we  may  remark  the  advantage  to 
his  argument  from  the  use  of  comparative  adjectives ; 
but  the  real  strength  of  it  is  in  the  use  of  the  word 


PLATO    ON    THE    IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL.       43 

become.  It  is  of  course  true  that  nothing  capable  of 
growth  can  become  large  or  small  except  from  being 
comparatively  small  or  large  previously.  The  fact 
that  he  confines  his  statement  to  attributives  is 
justified  by  his  regarding  living  and  dead  as  attri- 
butes of  man. 

(b)  By  the  presumed  symmetry  of  nature.     Here 
he  confines  himself  to  the  case  in  hand,  bringing  in 
no  illustrations.    We  see  that  the  state  of  being  alive 
exists,  and  the  state  of  being  dead ;  and  equally  evi- 
dent to  us  is  the  transition  in  one  direction,  from  life 
to  death,  that  is,  the  act  of  dying.     Therefore  if  na- 
ture is  not  to  be  unsymmetrical  (lame  is  his  word), 
must  we  not  assume  the  existence  of  the  opposite 
transition,  from  death  to  life,  that  is,  the  act  of  com- 
ing back  to  life  ?     This  is  plainly  necessary  in  order 
to  complete  the  supposed  cycle. 

(c)  By  a  reductio  ad  absurdum.    Suppose  that  there 
were  no  such  return  to  life  ;  or,  to  take  first  an  illustra- 
tion, suppose  that  men  fell  asleep  but  there  were  no 
waking  up  again  ;    plainly  all  men  would  in  time  be 
asleep.     So  if  there  should  be,  as  we  see  there  is,  the 
transition  of  dying,  but  not  the  corresponding  transi- 
tion of  coming  back  to  life,  everything  would   ulti- 
mately be  dead.     But  what  is  the  absurdity  in  this  ? 
There  is  none  apparent,  unless  we  supply  the  thought 
which,  though  not  expressed,  seems  to  be  assumed  in 
the  writer's  mind,  viz.,  that  it  is  contrary  to  reason 
to   suppose  that  this  world  of    life  and  activity  has 
come  into  being  with  no  other  end  in  prospect  for  it 
but  to  fall  asleep  and  sink  away  into  universal  death. 


44  STUDIES    IN    GREEK   THOUGHT. 

Thus,  then,  the  ancient  traditional  belief  that  the 
souls  of  men  pass  from  the  world  of  the  living  to 
the  world  of  the  dead,  and  return  again  thence  to  the 
world  of  the  living,  is  accepted.  It  is  easy  to  see  how 
such  a  belief  may  have  arisen  ;  the  alternations  of  life 
and  death  in  the  vegetable  world  during  the  progress 
of  the  seasons,  would  naturally  suggest  it.  It  was 
apparently  involved  in  the  Pythagorean  and  Oriental 
doctrine  of  transmigration  of  souls.  It  would  find 
support,  too,  in  the  Herakleitean  doctrine  that  being 
is  really  a  continual  becoming,  that  all  things  are  in 
a  perpetual  flux.  But  in  the  form  in  which  Plato 
presents  it,  it  rests  in  part  upon  another  Pythagorean 
doctrine,  namely,  that  of  a  sort  of  polarity  in  the  uni- 
verse, whereby  all  things  may  be  grouped  in  two 
classes  of  opposites. 

Two  or  three  remarks  may  be  made  upon  this  ar- 
gument before  we  speak  of  its  general  value,  (i) 
This  argument  implies  a  limited,  unchanging  number 
of  souls  in  existence.  The  possibility  of  the  creation 
of  new  souls  or  their  production  out  of  any  existing 
materials  would  destroy  the  whole  argument.  Indeed, 
Plato  recognizes  this  possibility,  in  order  to  exclude 
it,  when  he  says  (72  D),  "  For  if  living  things  pro- 
ceeded from  the  rest  of  the  universe  (i.e.,  not  from 
the  dead),  and  then  should  die,  the  result  would  be 
that  everything  would  end  in  death."  The  belief  in 
a  limited  number  of  souls  is  distinctly  stated  by  him 
in  the  Republic  (611  A).  (2)  This  argument  implies 
the  pre-existence  of  souls,  a  belief  which  appears 


PLATO    ON    THE    IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL.      45 

more  prominently  in  the  next  argument,  and  is  else- 
where avowed  by  him.  (3)  It  does  not  appear  from  any- 
thing in  this  argument  why  it  should  not  apply  as  well 
to  the  animal  and  plant  as  to  the  man,  and  perhaps 
(cf.  70  D)  Plato  would  not  have  objected  to  such  an 
extension,  as  Aristotle  would  not. 

Of  the  value  of  this  argument,  in  the  view  of 
modern  thought,  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  much. 
We  do  not  really  know  much  more  about  the  origin 
of  the  human  soul  than  Plato  did ;  but  few  men,  un- 
less a  Thomas  Beecher,  would  soberly  argue  that  the 
souls  of  the  dead  return  again  to  this  life  in  the  form  of 
bees  or  wolves,  to  use  Plato's  illustrations,  or  of  men. 
But  it  may  be  observed  that  the  argument  regards 
the  soul  as  an  independent  something,  of  which  being 
in  this  life  and  being  in  the  state  beyond  death  are 
merely  two  conditions.  It  depends  wholly  upon  the 
assumption  that  being  alive  and  being  dead  are  two 
exact  opposites,  and  that  there  is  no  third  possibility 
for  the  soul.  If  there  is  such  a  third  possibility,  — 
for  instance,  destruction,  —  the  argument  breaks  down. 
This  weak  point  is  seen  further  on  in  "the  discussion, 
and  an  attempt  is  made  to  cover  it. 

II.  The  second  argument  has  much  more  real 
substance  than  the  first.  It  is  sometimes  concisely 
described  as  the  argument  from  reminiscence,  which 
serves  well  enough  for  a  title ;  but  it  should  not  be 
supposed  that  the  argument  is  simply  this,  that  we 
seem  to  recall  things  from  a  former  state  of  existence, 
and  therefore  must  have  passed  through  such  a  state. 


46  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

That  it  really  contains  more   than  this,  will  appear 
from  the  following  formal  statement  of  it. 

1.  Learning  is  really  recalling  or  reminiscence. 
(This  is  shown  in  73  A,  by  the  usual  proof  that  a 
skilful  questioner  can  lead  another  person   to   state 
a  number  of   truths  about  a  subject    on  which    the 
person    questioned   previously    supposed   himself    to 
have  no  knowledge.) 

2.  Reminiscence  implies  three  things,  viz.  :  — 
(a)  Previous  knowledge  of  the  thing  recalled  ; 

(&)  That  one  thing  may  recall  to  the  mind  another 
though  entirely  different  thing  ;  e.g.,  the  sight  of  a 
lyre  may  recall  the  image  of  its  owner,  etc. ; 

(c)  When  the  object  suggesting  and  the  object 
suggested  are  alike,  judgment  as  to  the  degree  of 
likeness. 

3.  There  exist  certain  absolute  essences,  such  as 
beauty,  goodness,  equality,  etc. 

4.  We   get   our   knowledge    of    them    from    the 
senses,  e.g.,   the  Idea  (=  absolute  essence)  of  like- 
ness  (TO  ta-ov)  is   suggested    by  the    sight  of   things 
like  to  one  another. 

5.  But  we  also  observe  at  the  same  time  that  the 
Idea  of  likeness  is  not  perfectly  realized  in  any  two  like 
objects,  i.e.,  no  two  like  objects  are  precisely  alike. 

6.  In  order  to  be  able  to  pass  this  judgment,  that 
the  Idea  of  likeness  is  not  perfectly  realized  in  any 
object  of  the  senses,  we  must  have  had  the  Idea  of 
likeness  in  our  minds  before  we  could  make  the  com- 
parison between  it  and  like  objects. 


PLATO    ON    THE    IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL.      47 

7.  On  the  other  hand,  the  perception  of  the  objects 
compared  with  the  Idea  is  gained  only  by  the  use  of 
the  senses  ;  and  at  the  first  use  of  the  senses  we  are 
in  possession  of  the  Idea  which  we  compare  with 
them. 

8.  But  the  use  of  the  senses  begins  at  birth ;  hence 
before  birth  we  must  have  had  the  Idea  of  likeness. 
(All  this  applies  to  all  the  Ideas  or  absolute  essences, 
that  of  likeness  being  merely  taken  as  an  example.) 

9.  Hence,   as  to  all    such  Ideas,  there   are   two 
alternatives  :  — 

(a)  Either  we  are  in  possession  of  them  from  birth 
all  along  through  life  ; 

(b)  Or  we  have  lost  andtare  obliged  to  recall  them. 

10.  We  are  not  all  of  us  in  possession  of  them,  for 
we  cannot  all  of  us  explain  them,  and  no  man  knows 
what  he  cannot  explain. 

1 1.  Hence  it  must  be  that  we  have  lost  them ;  and 
the  process  of  learning  about  them  is  a  recalling  of 
what  we  knew  before  in  a  state  before  birth. 

12.  Therefore  our  souls  existed  and   had  intelli- 
gence to  apprehend  these  Ideas  before  birth. 

This  doctrine  of  reminiscence  is  prominent  in 
Plato's  system.  It  does  not  appear  at  all  in  Xeno- 
phon,  and  hence  was  probably  unknown  to  Sokrates. 
But  it  is  inseparably  connected  with  Plato's  doctrine 
of  Ideas.  For  the  Ideas,  being  the  one  unchanging 
real  existence,  are  the  link  not  only  between  the 
seen  and  the  unseen,  but  also  between  past  and 
present  (and  here  in  the  Phaedo  recognized  also  as 


48  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

the  link  between  present  and  future).  No  one  of 
the  ever-perishing  objects  of  this  visible  world  has 
enough  reality  of  existence  to  have  belonged  to  that 
past  state ;  it  is  only  the  Ideas  that  exist  in  and  by 
themselves,  and  hence  are  always  to  be  apprehended 
in  any  sphere  by  whatever  being  is  present  capable 
of  apprehending  them.  The  doctrine  of  Ideas  was  to 
Plato  the  way  into  the  realm  of  truth,  the  only  attain- 
able theory  of  knowledge.  It  was  his  means  of  get- 
ting a  foothold  of  ground  for  thought  to  start  from. 
The  Eleatics  had  denied  all  existence  except  that  of 
absolute  Being,  a  pure  abstraction  having  no  possible 
connection  with  the  world  of  sense.  Herakleitos 
had  denied  any  existence  except  the  process  of  com- 
ing into  being  and  passing  out  of  it,  the  unceasing 
flux  which  every  object  of  sense  undergoes  continually. 
Neither  of  these  theories  is  a  satisfactory  basis  for 
knowledge  or  for  reasoning.  To  gain  that  basis,  as 
well  as  to  overthrow  the  dogma  of  Protagoras,  omnium 
homo  mensura,  Plato  conceived  the  perfect  original 
of  all  sensible  objects  as  existing  in  a  world  remote 
from  this,  beyond  all  sense-knowledge,  of  which 
world  alone  real  existence  could  be  predicated.  The 
connection  between  these  real  existences  and  the 
phenomenal  existences  about  us,  necessary  in  order 
to  be  able  to  determine  the  relation  of  our  world  to 
existence,  was  not  established  by  Plato  very  satisfac- 
torily. He  was  in  doubt  about  the  nature  of  it,  and 
leaves  it  uncertain  (Phaedo  100  D)  whether  it  should 
be  called  a  presence  of  the  Idea  in  the  sensible  ob- 


PLATO  ON  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL.  49 

ject  or  a  communion  of  one  with  the  other  or  by 
some  other  name.  But  however  joined  to  sensible 
objects,  beauty  and  goodness  and  equality  and  trees 
and  tables,  yes,  even  dust  and  filth,  have  real  exist- 
ence only  beyond  the  sphere  of  the  visible  in  a  realm 
apart.  This  was  the  world  of  Ideas,  and  of  that 
world,  as  beyond  the  reach  of  sense,  the  mind  could 
have  knowledge  only  by  having  been  in  it  during  a 
previous  life. 

In  general  it  is  true  enough  to  say  that  these  Ideas 
of  Plato's  correspond  to  what  we  call  abstract  ideas, 
though  he  did  not  use  that  adjective  because  it  im- 
plies a  theory  as  to  their  origin  which  he  had  not 
formed.  We  say  that  such  conceptions  as  those  of 
whiteness,  beauty,  goodness,  are  formed  by  abstract- 
ing the  common  element  found  in  all  white  or  beau- 
tiful or  good  objects  from  the  qualities  peculiar  to  the 
individual  or  the  sub-class.  This  may  account  for 
the  existence  of  abstract  ideas,  but  it  leaves  unac- 
counted for  the  existence  in  our  minds  of  the  faculty 
of  abstraction.  If  then  we  seek  to  translate  Plato's 
thought  into  modern  thought,  we  must  take  a  differ- 
ent class  of  conceptions  from  abstract  ideas.  The 
true  parallel  in  this  respect  to  his  Ideas  would  be 
such  things  as  the  idea  of  cause,  the  idea  of  duty,  the 
conception  of  space,  and  others  like  these,  which  we 
find  existing  in  the  human  mind  at  its  earliest  ac- 
tivity and  do  not  know  how  to  account  for.  With 
this  substitution  we  should  state  his  argument  thus : 
"  We  find  in  our  minds  certain  things  for  the  presence 


50  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

of  which  we  cannot  account ;  the  objects  of  sense 
around  us  furnish  the  occasion  of  our  conscious  use 
of  these  things,  but  cannot  have  originated  them ; 
at  no  time  since  birth  have  we  been  put  into  posses- 
sion of  them  ;  hence  we  are  born  with  them ;  they 
must  be  ascribed  to  some  extra-mundane  source,  and 
we  must  suppose  that  we  acquired  them  in  a  previ- 
ous state  of  existence."  All  the  steps  of  this  argu- 
ment, except  the  last  four,  would  be  valid  in  the  view 
of  all  modern  thought  but  that  which  denies  indepen- 
dent existence  and  divine  origin  to  the  human  soul. 
These  last  steps  were  the  only  conclusion  to  the  ar- 
gument which  could  be  expected  from  even  such  a 
mind  as  Plato's  in  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 

As  an  argument  in  the  series,  it  will  be  noticed  at 
once  (as  it  is  in  the  dialogue),  that  it  may  prove  prior 
existence  for  the  soul,  but  does  not  at  all  go  to  show 
anything  more  than  the  possibility  of  existence  after 
death.  This  defect  has  to  be  made  good  by  subse- 
quent proof.  As  compared  with  the  first  argument,  it 
has  not  only  the  advantage  of  being  based  more  directly 
on  the  facts  of  human  nature,  and  so  of  having  more 
logical  substance,  but  also  it  makes  an  advance  in 
that  it  applies  only  to  man,  and  not  to  animals  or 
plants  as  well ;  and  only  to  the  spiritual  part  of  man,  and 
not  to  his  body  also.  That  is  because  it  rests  entirely 
upon  intellectual  phenomena,  and  the  fact  is  recog- 
nized by  Plato  in  the  significant  addition  (76  C), 
"  Our  souls  then  existed  before  they  came  into  hu- 
man form,  apart  from  the  body,  and  had  intelligence  " 


PLATO    ON    THE    IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL.      51 


ao)/Jidro)v,  KOL  el%ov  (^povrfcnv).  At  the  end 
of  this  argument  (76  D  E),  Plato  states  the  sub- 
stance of  it  in  a  pregnant  form  which-  is  worth  re- 
peating, "  The  existence  of  our  souls  before  we 
came  into  this  life  is  as  sure  as  the  existence  of  the 
Ideas."  Jowett,  in  his  Introduction  to  the  P/iaedo, 
points  out  that  this  is  as  if  we  should  say,  "  The  im- 
mortality of  the  soul  is  as  sure  as  the  existence  of 
God,"  or,  "  I  believe  in  the  existence  of  God,  and 
therefore  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul." 

III.  The  third  argument  moves  in  a  sphere  more 
familiar  to  the  popular  forms  of  thought  concerning 
the  soul  ;  there  is  little  in  it  which  is  not  found  in 
ordinary  writing  of  average  minds  on  the  subject  ; 
cycles  of  existence,  transmigration  and  a  pre-natal 
life  appear  no  more.  We  may  remark  by  way  of  in- 
troduction that  it  is  apparently  suggested  to  the  mind 
of  Sokrates  in  the  dialogue  by  the  words  ffwurraa-Qai 
afJioQev  irodev  (compacted  from  some  quarter  or  other) 
in  77  B. 

1.  An  uncompounded  thing  is  probably  incapable 
of  dispersion. 

2.  The   always-same   thing   is    probably   uncom- 
pounded. 

3.  Ideas    are  always-same  things    and  invisible, 
whereas    objects    about    us    are    ever-changing   and 
visible. 

4.  Soul  is  itself  invisible,  and  is  always  hampered 
by  the  body  in  its  efforts  to  reach  by  thought  the 
invisible. 


52  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

5.  Hence  soul  is  like  and  akin  to  the  always-same 
ideas. 

6.  Soul  dominates  body  as  the  divine  (and  immor- 
tal) does  the  (human  and)  mortal. 

7.  Hence  soul  herein  is  like  the  divine. 

8.  Thus  the  soul  is  like  the  divine,  the  invisible, 
the  always-same,  the  indissoluble. 

Here  the  argument  might  well  have  stopped,  but 
Plato,  perhaps  with  a  view  to  introducing  the  next 
step  in  the  dialogue,  goes  on  to  add  what  rather 
weakens  the  foregoing  by  suggesting  mere  compara- 
tive durability  on  the  part  of  the  soul. 

9.  The  body  lasts  some  time  after  death,  especi- 
ally if  it  is  embalmed ;  and  some  parts  of  it,  such  as 
the  bones,  seem  almost  imperishable.    Can  it  be  that 
the  higher,  purer  essence  of   the  soul   is  less  long- 
lived  ? 

As  has  been  said,  this  argument  moves  in  a  plane 
of  thought  familiar  in  almost  every  respect  to  our 
modern  thinking.  In  the  popular  conception,  death 
is  commonly  regarded  as  a  dividing  of  (i)  soul  from 
body  and  (2)  body  into  its  constituents.  "  Divide 
and  conquer  "  might  be  its  motto.  Hence  if  it  could 
be  proved  that  the  soul,  regarded  for  the  moment  as 
in  some  sense  material,  is  uncompounded,  we  might 
infer  that  it  can  defy  death  or  any  known  form  of 
destruction.  An  atom  of  matter  we  suppose  cannot 
in  the  course  of  nature  be  destroyed,  and  the  soul, 
if  simple,  would  have  at  least  the  eternity  of  mat- 
ter. Plato  seems  to  mean  to  distinguish  soul  from 


PLATO  ON  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL.   53 

matter  by  calling  it  invisible  and  unchanging,  but  no 
such  distinction  would  be  admitted  now.  We  may 
all  argue  that  the  soul  is  invisible  and  that  it  has 
dominion  over  the  body  ;  but  when  we  are  further  told 
that  it  is  simple  and  not  compounded,  we  are  in- 
clined to  ask  whether  the  predicate  is  applicable, 
whether  it  would  not  be  as  proper  to  speak  of  a 
white  smell  or  an  oblong  thought  as  of  an  uncom- 
pounded  soul.  At  best,  the  argument  as  Plato  puts  it, 
does  no  more  than  establish  a  presumption.  The  like- 
ness of  the  soul  to  a  class  of  invisible,  unchanging, 
supreme,  immortal  objects  does  not  prove  that  all 
these  predicates  are  equally  applicable  to  it. 

Here  the  discussion  takes  a  new  turn  by  the  intro- 
duction of  two  objections  or  difficulties  suggested  by 
the  two  Theban  friends  of  Sokrates.  The  second  of 
these  leads  to  the  introduction  of  Plato's  fourth  argu- 
ment, and  so  will  come  legitimately  into  this  sum- 
mary. The  first  objection,  however,  is  answered  by 
criticisms  which  contain  no  new  argument,  and  hence 
it  might  be  passed  over  here.  But  the  objection  is  in 
itself  so  akin  to  the  fashionable  modern  view  of  the 
soul,  that  it  seems  worth  while  to  give  it  a  little 
space.  The  objection  of  Simmias  is  suggested  by 
the  remark  Sokrates  had  made,  that  the  body  as  a 
whole  lasts  a  while,  some  parts  of  it  a  very  long  time, 
after  death,  and  that  it  can  hardly  be  that  the  pure, 
invisible  essence  of  the  soul  does  not  last  longer. 
Simmias  says  :  "  How  is  it  in  this  parallel  case  ? 
A  strain  of  melody  is  invisible  and  incorporeal 


54          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

and  admirable  and  divine,  while  the  instrument  that 
produces  it  is  earthly  and  compounded,  and  akin 
to  the  mortal.  Shall  we  say  then  that,  because  the 
broken  strings  and  wood  of  the  lyre  last  a  long  time, 
the  melody  must  be  lasting  still  longer  ?  Now  we 
regard  the  soul  as  a  melody  or  harmony,  produced  by 
the  exact  tension  of  the  body  in  equilibrium  between 
opposing  forces.  May  it  not  perish  when  this  nice 
adjustment  is  broken  down,  just  as  the  music  does, 
though  the  materials  which  were  so  adjusted  last  for 
some  time  ?  "  The  answer  of  Plato  is  as  follows  :  — 

1.  This  objection  is  inconsistent  with  the  doctrine 
of  reminiscence,  and  with  the  pre-natal  existence  of 
the  soul  which  that  doctrine  has  been  shown  to  im- 
ply.    For  a  harmony  cannot  exist  before  the  material 
causes  of  it  exist  in  a  state  of  proper  adjustment ; 
hence  if  the  soul  is  a  harmony,  it  cannot  have  had  an 
existence   prior   to   this    life.     But    the    doctrine   of 
reminiscence  is  inseparably  connected  with  the  doc- 
trine of  Ideas,  and  so  must  be  true. 

2.  A    harmony  is  determined    in  its  nature  and 
quality  by  the  material    things   which   produce    it  ; 
hence  one  harmony  is  more  a  harmony  than  another, 
if  its  material  causes  are  better  adjusted.     But   one 
soul  cannot  be  more  a  soul  than  another  ;  hence  the 
soul  is  not  a  harmony. 

3.  One  soul  may  have  more  of  virtue  or  vice  than 
another.     But  if  those  who  call  the  soul  a  harmony 
also  call  virtue  harmony  and  vice  discord  (which  prob- 
ably, but  not  certainly,  they  would  do),  then,  as  one 


PLATO    ON    THE    IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL.       55 

soul  cannot  be  more  or  less  a  soul,  or,  in  other  words, 
cannot  be  more  or  less  harmonized  than  another,  all 
souls  must  have  an  equal  degree  of  harmony  in  the 
sense  of  virtue ;  or  rather,  no  soul  could  have  any  dis- 
cord, that  is,  vice.  Hence  the  soul  cannot  be  a 
harmony. 

4.  (Recurring  to  the  former  principle,  under  2, 
and  applying  it  differently.)  Harmony  is  dependent 
on  the  material  things  that  produce  it.  But  the  soul 
leads,  opposes,  disciplines,  chastises  the  body,  as  is 
illustrated  by  a  quotation  from  the  Odyssey.  Hence 
the  soul  is  not  a  harmony. 

The  objection  of  Simmias  is  based  upon  what 
seems  to  have  been  a  current  metaphor,  probably  of 
Pythagorean  origin.  Thus  it  happens  that  the  an- 
swer to  it  put  into  the  mouth  of  Sokrates  is  mainly 
a  criticism  of  the  metaphor,  and  contributes  no  posi- 
tive argument  for  immortality.  But  the  objection 
itself,  though  thus  easily  disposed  of,  is  yet,  as  has 
been  already  said,  one  of  the  most  modern  things  in 
the  book.  Who  does  not  as  he  reads  it  recognize 
the  familiar  tone,  the  view  of  the  nature  of  the  soul 
which  now  meets  us  everywhere,  the  only  view  we 
are  told  for  which  there  is  any  evidence  at  all  ? 
There  is  little  difference,  from  one  point  of  view,  be- 
tween calling  the  soul  a  harmony,  produced  by  the 
action  of  balanced  forces  upon  the  body,  and  calling 
it  the  product  of  molecular  change,  or  rather,  not  a 
product  at  all,  but  a  mere  series  of  such  changes.  As 
Demokritos  has  been  summoned  from  his  sleep  of  ages 


56  STUDIES    IN    GREEK   THOUGHT. 

to  be  the  patron  of  one  modern  theory,  so  might  Hera- 
kleitos  be  brought  up  from  the  dead  to  give  authority 
to  this  one.  For  he  thought  that  all  existence  was 
but  a  series  of  changes,  a  perpetual  flux,  and  on  this 
theory  the  mind  and  soul  of  man  is  a  mere  stream  of 
states  of  consciousness,  like  a  river  passing  through 
the  same  bed,  but  never  for  two  seconds  together 
the  same  actual  substance.  We  cannot  certainly  say 
how  Plato  would  have  met  this  theory  if  it  had  been 
formulated  in  his  time,  but  the  points  of  his  criticism 
on  the  metaphor  of  a  harmony  suggest  a  probability. 
The  first  point  above  needs  but  little  adaptation  in 
order  to  become  the  question,  "  How  can  a  series  of 
molecular  changes  have  a  memory  ?  "  And  the  last 
point  he  makes  (4)  is  as  good  against  the  modern 
theory  as  against  the  ancient  metaphor.  It  is  an 
appeal  to  consciousness  and  to  conscience ;  to  con- 
sciousness as  testifying  to  the  action  of  the  will,  to 
conscience  as  sitting  in  judgment  upon  the  decisions 
of  the  will. 

We  come  now  to  the  objection  of  Kebes,  which  in- 
troduces the  last  and  most  important  of  the  formal 
arguments  for  immortality.  Kebes  begins  by  conced- 
ing that  the  soul  is  much  more  durable  than  the  body, 
and  therefore  may  probably  enough  survive  the  ex- 
perience of  death.  But  who  can  tell,  he  argues, — 
but  let  us  have  his  illustration  first,  for  the  sake  of 
its  quaintness.  He  too,  like  Simmias,  will  present 
his  thought  in  a  garb  of  imagery.  "  Suppose  a  weaver 
dies  and  is  buried,  and  some  one  brings  us  his  clothes 


PLATO  ON  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL.   57 

and  says,  '  Here  are  the  clothes,  still  in  existence  ; 
must  you  not  admit  that  the  man  himself,  a  much 
more  durable  thing  than  a  garment,  is  still  in  exis- 
tence, too  ? '  Not  so,  we  should  answer ;  for  this 
weaver  made  for  himself,  and  wore  out,  many  a  gar- 
ment, and  finally  perished  before  the  latest  garment 
was  worn  out.  May  it  not  be,  then,  that  the  soul 
likewise  wears  out  many  bodies,  if  the  man  has  a  long 
life,  constantly  renewing  its  bodily  vesture  as  it  con- 
stantly wears  it  out,  but  at  last  finds  its  own  life  ex- 
hausted in  the  process,  and  so  dies  before  the  last 
form  of  its  body  does,  leaving  it  still  existing  ?  May 
it  not  even  pass  through  several  lives,  surviving  several 
successive  deaths,  but  at  last,  in  some  one  death  (and 
no  man  can  tell  when  that  one  will  come),  itself  also 
perish  ? "  ' 

By  way  of  preliminary  to  the  answer  to  this  objec- 
tion, Sokrates  is  represented  as  giving  a  sketch  of  his 
own  intellectual  history,  so  far  as  it  may  be  traced  in 
the  effort  to  determine  the  true  meaning  of  the  idea 
of  cause.  If  this  sketch  could  be  taken  as  a  real  piece 
of  history,  representing  what  actually  occurred  in  the 
case  of  Sokrates  or  of  Plato,  it  would  be  of  exceeding 
value  and  interest.  But,  unfortunately,  it  does  not 
seem  to  be  personal  history.  It  begins  too  far  back 
for  Plato,  and  goes  too  far  forward  for  Sokrates.  We 
must  rather  look  at  it  as  a  brief  outline,  in  this  bio- 
graphical form,  of  the  course  of  Greek  philosophy  in 
the  discussion  of  the  nature  of  cause.  He  says  that 
when  he  was  young  he  used  to  be  much  interested  in 


58  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

questions  as  to  the  cause  of  the  origin  and  of  the  de- 
cline of  this  thing  and  that,  as,  for  example,  of  thought, 
and  of  the  movements  of  heavenly  bodies,  and  of  the 
growth  of  the  human  body.  But  from  all  such  inqui- 
ries he  could  get  no  answer  which  satisfied  him.  For 
instance,  if  you  say  one  man  is  taller  than  another  by 
a  head,  is  it  the  head  that  makes  him  so  ?  If  so,  then 
is  it  the  head  that  makes  the  second  man  shorter  than 
the  first  ?  But  how  can  the  same  thing  make  one 
man  taller  and  another  shorter  ?  Again,  division 
makes  two  things  out  of  one,  and  the  addition  of  one 
to  another  makes  two  ;  but  how  can  division  and  addi- 
tion cause  the  same  result  ?  In  the  midst  of  these 
puzzles  he  heard  one  day  a  man  reading  from  a  book, 
said  to  be  by  Anaxagoras,  that  the  organizer  and 
cause  of  all  things  was  Mind.  This  phrase  pleased 
him  wonderfully,  suggesting  a  possibility  of  all  sorts 
of  rational  explanations  of  different  phenomena,  and 
he  lost  no  time  in  getting  the  book  into  his  own 
hands.  But  how  wofully  he  was  disappointed  when 
he  found  that  the  author  of  the  new  theory  himself 
did  not  make  any  satisfactory  use  of  it,  but  went  on 
in  the  old  way,  suggesting  all  sorts  of  proximate  and 
occasional  causes.  It  was,  he  says,  as  if  some  one 
should  say  that  he,  Sokrates,  did  everything  by  (reason 
of)  his  mind,  and  then  should  go  on  to  say  that  the 
reason  why  he  was  sitting  there  in  the  prison  was  be- 
cause his  body  was  made  up  of  bones  and  sinews,  and 
that,  by  certain  contractions  of  the  latter,  he  was 
held  there  in  a  sitting  position  ;  thus  ignoring  the  fact 


PLATO    ON    THE    IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL.      59 

that  his  body  would  long  since  have  been  away  in 
Megara  or  Boeotia,  if  he  had  not  thought  it  more  just 
and  honorable  to  stay  there  where  he  was.  What  he 
ought  to  have  said  was  that  the  possession  of  these 
bones  and  sinews  was  the  necessary  condition  of  his 
sitting  there;  but  Sokrates's  judgment  of  what  was 
best  was  the  real  cause.  This  confusion  of  necessary 
condition  with  real  cause  was  responsible  for  many  of 
the  absurd  theories  as  to  natural  phenomena  prevalent 
in  former  times.  It  seemed  necessary,  in  order  to 
avoid  these  errors,  not  to  look  at  realities  directly,  lest 
the  mental  sight  should  be  dazzled  (just  as  the  eyes 
would  be  if  one  should  look  directly  at  an  eclipse  of 
the  sun  instead  of  at  a  reflection  of  it),  but  to  turn 
the  attention  upon  conceptions  or  the  world  of  Ideas, 
and  study  there  the  true  reality.  The  method  in  this 
sphere  of  thought  is  to  determine  a  principle  which  is 
known  to  be  true  by  its  application  to  a  number  of 
cases,  and  to  hold  fast  by  it,  and  use  it  consistently ; 
and  if  it  is  assailed,  strive  for  some  more  general  prin- 
ciple in  its  stead,  until  you  reach  something  which 
will  hold  good. 

This  brings  us  to  the  fourth  argument. 

IV.  i.  The  existence  of  Ideas  is  assumed  as  -a 
starting-point.  (This  is  the  "principle"  which  is 
now  to  be  applied  to  determine  the  nature  of  cause.) 

2.  Objects  have  qualities  by  being  connected  in 
some  way  with  the  Ideas.  E.g.,  It  is  by  partaking  of 
beauty,  that  an  object  is  beautiful.  Or,  it  is  not  the 
addition  of  one  to  one  that  makes  two,  but  the  pres- 
ence of  the  duad. 


6O  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

3.  Opposite  Ideas  cannot  be  present  in  the  same 
object  at  the  same  time.      It  may  appear  so  some- 
times.    E.g.,  A  man  midway  in  height  between  two 
others  may  seem  to  have  at  once  smallness  and  great- 
ness, being  smaller  than  one  of  the  two  others,  and 
larger  than  the  other.  t    But  these  are  merely  compar- 
ative greatness  and  smallness,  not  the  absolute  Ideas. 
Absolute  greatness  and  smallness  cannot  co-exist. 

4.  There  are  certain  objects  which  contain  one  Idea 
in  such  a  way  that  they  cannot  admit  the  Idea  oppo- 
site to  the  one  they  contain,  and  therefore  may  always 
be  described  by  the  term  which  describes  the  Idea 
contained  in  them.      E.g.,  Snow  contains  the   Idea 
coldness,  cannot  admit  the  Idea  heat,  and  so  may  be 
always  called  cold.     The  number  three  contains  the 
triad  (i.e.,  the  Idea  of  three),  and  also  the  Idea  odd- 
ness  ;  it  can  never  admit  the  Idea  evenness,  and  may 
always  be  called  odd.     Each  of  these,  on  the  approach 
of  the  Idea  opposed  to  its  contained  Idea,  must  either 
withdraw  or  perish. 

5.  What  sort  of  objects  are  the  foregoing  ?     They 
are  such  as  contain  an  Idea  which  necessarily  carries 
with  it  another  Idea,  which  latter  is  one  of  a  pair  of 
op'posite  Ideas.     E.g.,  The  number  three  is  not  oppo- 
site to  the  number  two,  or  to  the  Idea  evenness,  or  to 
anything  at  all.     But  the  number  three  contains  the 
triad  and  also  necessarily  thereby  the  Idea  oddness, 
which  latter  is  opposed  to  the  Idea  evenness.     (This 
is  the  reason  why  three  can  never  be  even.) 

6.  What  in  a  number  causes  it  to  be  odd  ?     Not 


PLATO  ON  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL.  6 1 

alone  the  Idea  oddness,  but  also  the  monad  or  the 
triad,  etc.,  which  necessarily  contains  the  Idea  odd- 
ness.  What,  then,  similarly  in  a  (human)  body  causes 
it  to  be  living  ?  Not  merely  the  presence  of  the  Idea 
life,  but  also  the  presence  in  the  body  of  the  soul, 
which,  besides  the  Idea  soul,  contains  and  carries 
with  it  the  Idea  life.  Hence,  at  the  approach  of 
death,  as  three  at  the  approach  of  evenness,  or  snow 
at  the  approach  of  heat,  soul  must  either  withdraw  or 
perish,  for  it  contains,the  Idea  life,  and  cannot  admit 
the  Idea  death ;  that  is,  it  is  undying. 

7.  Now,  if  the  uneven  were  imperishable,  the  num- 
ber three,  on  the  approach  of  evenness,  could  not 
perish,  but  would  withdraw  and  disappear.     So  if  the 
undying  thing  is  imperishable,  it  cannot  perish ;  it 
must    withdraw   on    the    approach    to    it    of    death. 
Therefore,  if  the  undying  thing  is  imperishable,  soul, 
besides  being  undying,  would  also  be  imperishable. 

8.  But  God  and  the  Idea  life  and  any  other  immor- 
tal thing  would  be  admitted  to  be  incapable  of  per- 
ishing.     This  indicates  that    the  undying   must  be 
imperishable.      Hence   the    soul,    because    undying, 
must  be  supposed  to  be  imperishable,  and  to  withdraw 
in  safety  at  the  onset  of  death. 

On  this  argument  Jowett  remarks  that  it  is  purely 
verbal,  and  is  but  the  expression  of  an  instinctive 
confidence  put  into  a  logical  form,  "  The  soul  is  im- 
mortal because  it  contains  a  principle  of  imperisha- 
bleness."  Somewhat  similarly  another  writer  (Chase, 
Bib.  Sac.  1849)  says  that  the  argument  reduced  to 


62         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

syllogistic  form  would  be,  "  Whatever  is  essentially 
vital  cannot  die  :  the  soul  is  essentially  vital ;  there- 
fore it  cannot  die,"  where  the  major  premise  is  an 
identical  proposition  and  the  minor  premise  cannot  be 
proved.  These  opinions  seem  to  indicate  that  the 
critics  did  not  get  hold  of  the  real  point  of  the  argu- 
ment. That  point  may  be  stated  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows :  |"  Life  and  death  are  opposed  and  incompatible  ; 
where  either  is,  the  other  cannot  be.  The  soul,  so 
far  as  our  knowledge  goes,  is  inseparable  from  life; 
it  brings  life  with  it,  it  never  leaves  it  behind  when  it 
leaves  the  body,  and  it  never  lingers  behind  when  life 
is  gone ;  we  cannot  therefore  conceive  of  the  soul 
apart  from  life ;  a  dead  soul  is  something  outside  of 
human  experience,  as  much  so  as  hot  snow  or  cold 
fire.  Hence  we  infer  that  the  soul  is  incapable  of 
death,  and  as  that  is  the  only  form  of  destruction 
known  to  us,  is  immortal."  We  may  represent  to  our- 
selves the  vital  part  of  the  argument  by  a  modern 
parallel :  "  Heat  implies  motion,  is  an  external  sign  of 
it,  and  is  inseparable  from  it.  Wherever  we  perceive 
heat,  we  infer  motion.  Wherever  we  produce  mo- 
tion, we  infer  and  expect  and  find  heat.  So  soul 
and  life  are  uniformly  connected  in  our  experience. 
Wherever  we  observe  life,  we  infer  soul.  Wherever 
we  find  soul,  we  may  expect  to  find  life,  not  death." 
In  thus  representing  the  argument,  we  aim  not  to  go 
beyond  Plato's  reasoning,  but  merely  to  adapt  it  to 
modern  forms  of  thought.  There  are  many  criticisms 
that  might  be  made  upon  his  reasoning.  Thus,  for 


PLATO    ON    THE    IMMORTALITY    OF    THE    SOUL.      63 

instance,  he  seems  to  juggle  with  the  word  addvaros, 
using  it  now  in  the  sense  deathless,  and  again  in  the 
sense  imperishable.  Again,  it  is  to  be  observed  that 
the  argument  fails  to  establish  personal  immortality.^,/! 
If  we  recur  to  the  parallel  suggested  above,  we  reflect 
at  once  that  it  is  possible  for  the  motion  to  be  in 
one  centre  and  for  the  heat  radiated  from  that  centre 
to  appear  in  a  number  of  bodies  which  have  no  heat 
or  motion  of  their  own.  So  it  might  be  that  life 
was  radiated  from  a  central  source  of  life  to  a  number 
of  souls  with  absolute  universality ;  and  then  when  a 
certain  time  came,  it  might  be  re-absorbed  by  the 
original  source,  so  that  it  would  no  longer  belong  to 
the  individual  soul. 


III. 

ON    PLATO'S    SYSTEM    OF    EDUCATION 
AS  PROPOSED  IN  THE  REPUBLIC. 

DLATO'S  system  of  education  as  proposed  in  the 
L  Republic  is  not  to  be  understood  as  presenting 
his  ideal  of  intellectual  culture  for  all  human  minds. 
This  needs  to  be  kept  in  mind  when  we  think  of 
criticising  it ;  for  without  remembering  this,  we  should 
be  likely  to  do  him  injustice  in  comparing  his  scheme 
with  those  which  have  prevailed  in  other  times.  The 
modern  theory  of  universal  education,  for  instance, 
rests  on  totally  different  aims,  and  therefore  con- 
tains totally  different  principles  from  his.  But  this 
special  restriction  in  his  case  does  not  forbid  com- 
parison of  his  scheme  with  others  ;  it  only  compels  a 
candid  critic  to  use  greater  caution.  There  is 
enough  of  common  matter  in  almost  all  systems  to 
furnish  ground  for  comparison. 

The  first  thing,  then,  to  notice  in  his  scheme  is 
that  it  is  designed  solely  for  his  ruling  class.  We 
might  easily  overlook  this  fact  when  we  read  his 
remarks  on  the  use  of  the  poets  which  come  in  under 
the  head  of  TratSe/a  (education}  in  music  and  gym- 
nastics, II.  xvn.-III.  xvm.  For  what  he  says  there 
seems,  as  we  hastily  read  it  with  our  ideas,  to  apply 


66          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

with  equal  truth  to  the  whole  people.  But  we  must 
observe  that  it  is  introduced  by  the  remark  that  the 
$>v\aice<;  (guardians  of  the  state)  must  be  </uXocro</>o4 
rrjv  (frva-iv  (philosophers  by  nature)  ;  therefore,  as  the 
Trai&eia  is  one  of  the  means  for  making  them  so,  it  must 
be  intended  for  them  alone.  Certainly  we  cannot  sup- 
pose that  he  meant  the  whole  population  to  deserve 
the  name  <f>i\.6o-o(f)oi,  with  his  high  conception  of  its 
meaning.  This,  then,  as  well  as  the  more  elaborate  and 
advanced  part  of  the  scheme  in  the  seventh  Book,  is 
designed  solely  for  the  small  and  carefully  selected 
ruling  class.  And  he  clearly  indicates  again  and 
again  that  it  is  a  difference  of  natures  that  deter- 
mines the  selection  of  some  and  the  rejection  of 
others.  Only  some  specially  qualified  natures  are 
capable  of  meeting  the  tests  of  fitness  for  this  edu- 
cation, and  of  these  probably  some  again  would  be 
weeded  out  by  the  severe  discipline  of  the  education 
itself.  It  is  plain,  then,  that  we  must  not  compare 
Plato's  scheme  with  general  theories  of  education, 
which  undertake  simply  to  show  how  the  mind  can 
best  be  developed  and  instructed.  There  is  another 
reason  why  this  comparison  cannot  be  made.  This 
scheme  is  not  only  for  selected  natures,  but  it  also 
has  a  definite  purpose  in  view.  It  is  the  work  of  a  law- 
giver, and  aims  to  produce  men  qualified  to  do  the  work 
of  government.  Neither  of  these  things  is  true  of 
what  I  have  called  general  theories  of  education. 
They  aim  to  make  scholars,  it  may  be,  or  cultivated 
gentlemen,  so  far  as  their  power  extends,  but  not 
specially  rulers. 


ON  PLATO'S  SCHEME  OF  EDUCATION.          67 

If,  then,  his  scheme  has  a  specific  object  in  view, 
may  we  not  fairly  compare  it  with  our  systems  of 
special  education,  those,  I  mean,  of  the  technical 
and  professional  schools  ?  No,  we  cannot,  for  the 
very  opposite  reason  to  the  previous  one.  Our  gen- 
eral education  is,  at  least  in  its  aims,  too  general  to 
be  compared  with  Plato's  scheme  ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  our  special  educations,  for  particular  lines  of 
work,  are  too  special  and  limited  to  be  so  compared. 
In  the  modern  theory  they  are  supplementary  to  the 
more  general  scheme,  and  make  no  pretension  to 
supply  what  is  supposed  to  come  from  it.  There  is 
no  modern  scheme,  then,  which  covers  the  ground 
which  Plato  aimed  to  cover.  If  any  person  attains 
to  such  results,  it  is  by  favoring  circumstances  and 
by  work  on  his  own  part,  of  a  kind  and  at  times  out- 
side of  all  formal  systems. 

Can  Plato's  system  be  briefly  stated  ?  It  is  set 
forth  in  separate  parts  of  his  work,  in  an  order  deter- 
mined by  the  time  of  life  of  the  pupil.  First  comes 
f^ovaiKij  ("music"),  including  the  literature  and  mu- 
sic which  is  to  form  the  character  from  the  very 
earliest  youth.  He  aims  to  control  the  nursery 
stories  which  mothers  and  nurses  tell  to  children 
(Rep.  377  C),  and  proposes  to  have  them,  in  their 
representations  of  the  gods,  in  their  heroic  examples, 
and  so  in  their  unconscious  effect  upon  character, 
in  harmony  with  what  the  young  rulers  are  to  hear 
and  believe  all  their  lives.  The  music,  too,  allowed 
in  his  state  is  to  be  such  only  as  will  contribute  to 


68  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

his  main  end,  and  even  the  metre  of  poetry  must  do 
the  same.  (This,  it  may  be  observed  in  passing,  illus- 
trates not  only  the  sensitiveness  of  the  Greeks  to 
these  things,  but  also  the  wide  reach  of  Plato's  plan, 
which  left  no  agency  unused  to  influence  the  develop- 
ment of  his  selected  natures.)  Alongside  of  this 
mental  training,  he  provides  for  a  bodily  training, 
(yv/j,va(TTLKJ],  "gymnastic  ")  beginning  almost  as  early, 
and  lasting,  like  the  other,  through  life.  Here  he  does 
not  give  quite  so  full  details,  but  in  general  outline 
prescribes  a  system  of  simple,  harmonious,  unremit- 
ting exercise,  prohibiting  all  excess,  and  especially 
the  use  of  medical  treatment  to  keep  life  going  in 
spite  of  sins  against  laws  of  health.  These  two  ele- 
ments of  /iofcrt/c?;  and  <yv/jLvao-Tiicr)  form  a  sort  of  foun- 
dation on  which,  in  the  seventh  Book,  he  builds  up 
his  advanced  education  which  is  to  constitute  the 
difference,  as  I  understand  him,  between  the  two 
classes  of  the  fyvXaices  (guardians).  They  have  alike 
the  former  training,  but  this  higher  education  is 
designed  only  for  those  who  have  shown  themselves 
by  his  tests  worthy  to  be  the  rulers.  In  this,  math- 
ematics come  first,  in  the  order  arithmetic,  plane 
and  solid  geometry,  astronomy,  and  the  science  of 
harmony  in  sound,  which  are  to  be  studied  however 
only  in  theory  or,  as  he  expresses  it,  by  problems. 
After  mathematics  come  dialectics,  by  which  we  may 
understand  logic  in  a  wide  sense,  the  science  of  rea- 
soning, or  the  laws  of  thought.  Apparently  the  time 
for  the  mathematical  training  is  the  ten  years  from 


ON    PLATO  S    SCHEME    OF    EDUCATION.  69 

twenty  to  thirty,  and  the  next  five  years  are  to  be 
given  to  dialectics  ;  then  fifteen  years  are  to  be  spent 
in  the  active  duties  of  civil  and  military  government ; 
and  from  fifty  years  of  age  on,  the  man  or  woman  is 
to  be  contemplating  the  Idea  of  the  Good,  and  con- 
trolling the  state  in  its  highest  concerns. 

In  looking  at  this  scheme  of  education,  one  thing 
that  strikes  us  is  that  its  two  parts  are,  or  seem  to 
be,  controlled  by  distinct  and  different  ideas.  In 
the  first  part,  the  leading  idea  is  a  moral  one ;  the 
aim  to  be  attained  and  by  which  the  methods  are  de- 
termined is  a  moral  aim.  This  is  plain  in  the  treat- 
ment of  literature.  Nothing  is  to  be  admitted,  no 
matter  how  great  the  name  or  the  skill  of  any  author, 
which  will  give  to  the  youth  of  this  ideal  state  wrong 
ideas  of  the  character  of  the  gods,  fear  of  death,  or 
license  in  excessive  indulgence  of  any  emotion.  So 
also  as  to  musical  modes  and  rhythms ;  such  as  are 
simple  and  severe  in  their  moral  effect  are  alone  tol- 
erated. So  again  as  to  gymnastics,  in  the  wide  sense 
of  all  the  treatment  of  the  body.  Everything  is  to  be 
done  which  will  contribute  to  the  production  in  the 
trained  person  of  ev\o>yia,  evppv0[j,ia  (beauty  of  lan- 
guage and  of  rhythm),  and  all  the  other  compounds 
of  ev.  Even  medicine  must  be  watched  and  disci- 
plined, to  see  that  it  does  not  in  any  way  pander  to 
vice  and  weakliness,  and  help  men  to  evade  their 
penalties.  In  a  word,  as  Plato  says  (Rep.  410  C),  the 
teachers  of  both  ^OVO-LKYJ  and  yv^vaa-nKij  have  in  view 
the  improvement  of  the  soul.  But  when  we  come  to 


7<D  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

the  second  part  of  the  scheme,  in  the  seventh  Book, 
a  different  principle  controls  everything.  In  both 
mathematics  and  dialectics,  the  aim  of  every  study 
and  of  the  way  in  which  it  is  pursued  throughout,  is 
to  conduct  the  mind  to  the  contemplation  of  real 
existence,  TO  6V,  and  especially  to  the  highest  and 
brightest  part  of  real  existence,  the  Idea  of  the  Good. 
This  conception  of  real  existence  controls,  for  in- 
stance, his  mathematical  method,  and  explains  why 
he  will  have  only  pure  theoretical  geometry  and  as- 
tronomy pursued,  no  surveying,  no  observation  of  the 
heavens  ;  for  all  external  objects  are  but  images  or 
shadows  of  reality,  and  only  turn  the  eye  away  from 
the  only  existing  thing  —  the  pure  Idea.  I  have  said 
that  these  two  parts  of  the  proposed  education  seem 
to  be  governed  by  two  different  principles ;  but  it 
may  more  truly  be  said  that  the  principle  is  the  same 
in  the  two  cases  and  the  difference  is  only  in  the 
form.  For  it  would  be  difficult  not  to  see,  in  Plato's 
"  Idea  of  the  Good,"  the  highest  conceivable  existence ; 
in  other  words,  it  is  his  name  for  God.  There  can  be 
nothing  beyond  this,  as  he  describes  it  in  the  sixth 
Book ;  and  if  the  principle  of  the  second  part  of  his 
scheme  of  education  is  the  effort  to  turn  the  mind  to 
the  continual  and  intelligent  contemplation  of  this 
divine  reality,  must  we  not  admit  that  it  would  tend 
to  the  best  possible  moral  results  ?  Many  things  in 
the  earlier  part  point  forward  to  this,  —  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  conception  of  the  gods  of  mythology,  by 
requiring  absolute  truth  in  the  description  of  them, 


ON  PLATO'S  SCHEME  OF  EDUCATION.  71 

insisting  on  simplicity  and  reality,  and  excluding  all 
mimicry.  The  apparent  inconsistence  between  the 
two  parts  diminishes  when  we  remember  that  with 
Sokrates,  and  with  Plato,  too,  virtue  is  explained  as 
the  knowledge  of  what  is  right  and  best.  They  could 
not  always  maintain  and  carry  through  its  conse- 
quences such  a  theory,  —  no  man  can,  —  but  in 
their  reasonings  they  uphold  it.  With  this  as  a 
prior  conception  (that  it  is  only  from  ignorance  or 
blindness  of  mind  that  men  do  wrong),  it  is  easy  to 
see  how  these  mathematical  and  logical  studies,  pur- 
sued, as  Plato  proposes,  to  the  end  of  attaining  the 
knowledge  of  reality,  would  be  introduced  into  a 
scheme  of  education  having  a  moral  aim.  Thus  we 
see  that  he  uses,  in  describing  the  effect  of  his  pro- 
posed education,  precisely  the  term  which  religion 
has  adopted  from  the  Bible,  the  "  conversion  of  the 
soul."  How  different  an  idea  this  is  from  that  in 
the  usual  Greek  word  Tra&eia,  or  the  Latin  word 
educatio  ! 

When  we  look  at  Plato's  scheme  in  comparison 
with  our  modern  schemes,  we  notice  several  points 
of  difference  in  matters  where  they  may  fairly  be 
compared.  Plato's  scheme  extends  to  body  as  well 
as  mind.  This  has  never,  I  believe,  been  a  part  of 
the  educational  system  of  any  nation,  unless  it  has 
become  so  of  late  years  here ;  that  is,  though  the 
European  universities  have  teachers  of  riding,  fen- 
cing, etc.,  connected  with  them,  the  attendance  of 
pupils  is  entirely  voluntary,  and  the  connection 


72  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

merely  nominal.  But  the  state,  in  a  rude  way,  does 
what  Plato  suggests  when  it  requires  of  every  man  a 
term  of  service  in  the  militia.  Plato's  scheme  covers 
the  whole  life  of  the  man,  keeping  him,  as  it  were,  in 
college  from  twenty  to  thirty  ;  in  a  higher  professional 
school  five  years  longer;  then  again,  after  fifteen 
years  of  discipline  in  places  of  responsibility,  calling 
him  back  to  pursue  still  further  the  study  which  was 
the  climax  of  his  earlier  education.  This  may  re- 
mind us  that  we  have  here  the  work  not  of  one 
charged  with  the  organization  of  a  system  of  educa- 
tion, nor  yet  of  a  legislator  in  an  actual  state. 
Neither  of  these  men  could  venture  on  such  absolute 
control  of  the  lives  of  men  from  beginning  to  end. 
This  is  merely  an  ideal,  and  the  ideal  character  of  it 
appears  perhaps  as  clearly  in  this  feature  as  any- 
where else.  We  notice  again  what  seems  to  us  a 
notable  want,  in  the  entire  absence  of  the  historical 
and  natural  sciences.  There  is  nothing  said  of  lan- 
guages, history,  political  science,  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  of  mechanics,  optics,  or  zoology.  The  general 
reason  for  this  omission  is  plain  :  these  sciences  were 
hardly  in  existence,  we  should  say;  but  more  pre- 
cisely, they  were  not  yet  so  developed  as  to  become 
part  of  the  common  property  of  educated  men.  Back 
of  this,  of  course,  is  another  reason,  which  may  be 
most  concisely  stated  in  this  form  —  the  comparative 
absence  of  books.  Books  were  not  easily  and  rapidly 
multiplied  ;  the  reading  class  was  very  small ;  the  con- 
ception of  book  education  on  a  wide  variety  of  sub- 


ON    PLATO  S    SCHEME    OF    EDUCATION.  73 

jects  for  any  but  the  few  was  not  formed.  Thus, 
although,  in  some  of  the  subjects  named,  certain 
individuals  had  in  Plato's  day  made  great  progress, 
particularly  in  political  science  and  in  some  branches 
of  natural  science,  yet  the  idea  that  some  degree  of 
theoretical  knowledge  of  them,  a  mere  smattering  if 
you  will,  belonged  to  the  education  of  youth,  had  not 
occurred  to  anybody.  Plato's  idea  goes  far  beyond 
the  usual  education  of  an  Athenian  boy  of  his  time, 
but  does  not  include  this  side  of  the  modern  idea.  It 
might  be  added  that  Plato,  though  himself  a  wide 
student,  had  a  bent  towards  metaphysics,  which  would 
keep  him  from  recognizing  fully  the  claims  of  the 
physical  sciences.  The  linguistic  science,  if  it  de- 
serves the  name  of  science,  of  his  day  is  the  object 
of  his  ridicule  in  another  dialogue;  and  history,  though 
the  type  of  writing  it  had  been  fixed  for  all  time  by 
Herodotus  and  Thukydides,  had  not  reached  a  form 
in  which  it  could  be  taught.  It  has  sometimes  been 
asked  how  the  average  of  Athenian  education  would 
compare  with  the  modern  average,  or  how  the  culti- 
vated Athenian  gentleman  would  compare  with  one 
who  would  deserve  such  a  description  in  our  time ; 
and  in  answering,  it  is  properly  said  that  the  works 
of  art  in  constant  sight,  the  dramatic  exhibitions  and 
public  recitations,  the  speeches  in  the  assembly  and 
in  courts,  must  have  made  up  an  education  which 
would  not  suffer  greatly  in  the  comparison.  This  is 
true,  but  we  must  remember  that  the  educational 
influence  of  these  things  was  not  their  prime  object, 


74  STUDIES    IN    GREEK     THOUGHT. 

but  an  incidental  result.  It  may  be,  however,  that 
the  fact  of  such  an  effect  was  one  reason  why  no  more 
elaborate  system  of  intentional  education  was  orga- 
nized. The  men  who  would  have  been  the  ones  to 
see  the  need  of  it,  and  plan  it,  and  keep  it  going,  were 
also  the  very  ones  who  appreciated  the  effect  of  the 
influences  above  mentioned  on  their  countrymen. 
Perikles's  funeral  oration  in  the  second  book  of  Thu- 
kydides  shows  this  clearly.  Demosthenes,  a  century 
later,  makes  a  similar  remark. 

How  far  does  Plato,  in  constructing  this  scheme, 
draw  upon  his  own  experience,  or  how  far  does  it  cor- 
respond with  what  we  know  of  his  own  education  ? 
There  seems  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  early  part 
of  his  life  was  passed  like  that  of  other  young  Atheni- 
ans of  good  family.  The  story  that  he  was  inclined 
to  make  of  himself  a  poet  has  no  improbability  about 
it,  and  is  indeed  confirmed  in  a  measure  by  the  strong 
evidence  in  his  writings  of  poetic  taste  and  genius. 
His  writings,  too,  show  very  clearly  that  he  was  well 
acquainted  with,  and  sensitive  to,  the  influence  of  the 
poetical  literature  of  his  people.  Nor  was  there  any- 
thing in  the  circumstances  of  the  state  during  his 
youth,  in  the  first  two-thirds  of  the  Peloponnesian  war, 
to  prevent  his  growing  up  under  quiet  influences,  as 
at  other  times.  We  are  told  by  a  tradition  that  when 
he  was  twenty  years  old  he  first  met  Sokrates,  and 
was  drawn  away,  by  the  fascination  of  his  society, 
from  every  thought  of  other  pursuits.  He  attached 
himself  to  his  new  master,  undoubtedly  for  the  re- 


ON  PLATO'S  SCHEME  OF  EDUCATION.  75 

maining  seven  or  eight  years  of  the  life  of  Sokrates, 
and  after  his  death  was  for  several  years  absent  from 
Athens,  studying  the  philosophic  ideas  of  others,  and 
developing  his  own  system.  There  is  special  note  in 
tradition  of  his  meeting  Archytas,  the  noted  Pytha- 
gorean mathematician,  in  Tarentum.  It  appears  cer- 
tain that  he  was  strongly  influenced  by  the  doctrines 
of  the  school  of  Pythagoras,  and  particularly  by  the 
mathematical  element  in  them.  On  his  return  to 
Athens,  he  became  head  of  a  company  of  students  of 
philosophy,  and  remained  there  for  most  of  his  re- 
maining years,  elaborating  his  system  and  writing  his 
later  dialogues.  Now,  it  seems  natural  to  see  in  this 
outline  of  his  life  something  of  a  resemblance  to  the 
plan  for  his  ideal  rulers.  First,  the  usual  study  of 
literature  and  of  the  arts  of  poetry  and  music,  with  a 
gymnastic  training  of  the  body,  which  latter  no  one 
can  doubt  that  he  himself  had  in  youth.  Then  the 
taking  up  of  severer  studies,  wholly  in  the  line  of 
mathematics ;  then  the  final  devotion  to  metaphysics. 
May  we  not  reasonably  account,  in  this  way,  for  his 
choice  of  these  two  subjects,  mathematics  and  meta- 
physics, for  the  food  and  exercise  of  his  selected 
minds,  from  the  fact  that  he  had  found  his  own  path 
of  mental  growth  to  lie  through  them,  and  in  this 
order  ?  I  should  think  we  might  venture  to  say  that 
another  thinker,  who  had  followed  a  different  course 
himself,  would  probably  have  marked  out  a  different 
one  for  his  ideal  state.  And  it  may  be  added  that 
Aristotle,  whose  course  of  education,  in  part  with 


76  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

Plato,  was  different  from  Plato's,  has  left  a  scheme 
of  education  which,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  very  unlike  the 
one  in  the  Republic. 


IV. 

THE  OEDIPUS  REX  OF    SOPHOKLES.1 

A  WORD  of  apology  may  be  allowed  me  at  the 
outset.  I  am  quite  aware  of  the  apparent  au- 
dacity of  coming  to  speak  upon  the  subject  I  have 
chosen,  in  this  city  and  in  this  room.  For  you  have 
made  this  play  in  some  sense  your  own,  and  there 
are  scholars  here  far  better  qualified  than  I  to  ex- 
pound its  meaning.  Besides,  in  this  room,  — if  these 
walls  could  speak,  they  might  reproduce  the  thrilling 
tones  of  the  actors  and  the  chorus  of  last  May,  and 
you  can  hardly  look  upon  this  stage  without  having 
brought  back  vividly  to  memory  those  striking  com- 
binations, the  beautiful  group  of  suppliants,  the  dig- 
nified chorus,  the  impassioned  Oedipus,  the  graceful 
form  of  lokasta,  and  all  the  other  elements  of  the 
admirable  reproduction, — a  memory  which  will  make 
any  words  of  mine  seem  tame  and  feeble.  But  I 
remember  that  a  certain  one  also  of  your  own  poets, 
in  prose  not  less  graceful  than  his  verse,  likened  him- 
self in  the  opening  of  an  address  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  in  1870,  to  the  humble  mechanic  who  goes 
round,  when  a  train  stops  at  a  station,  with  lantern 
and  hammer,  to  test  the  soundness  of  the  wheels.  In 

1  Lecture  given  in  the  Sanders  Theatre,  at  Cambridge,  before  the 
Harvard  Philological  Society,  April  26,  i8$2. 


78  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

distant  imitation  of  his  example,  I  would  compare 
what  I  hope  to  do  to-night  to  the  work  of  a  much 
humbler  ministrant,  the  ignorant  boy,  perhaps,  who 
lights  the  street-lamps,  or  the  brakeman  who  tells 
you  the  name  of  the  next  station.  If,  by  often  going 
over  this  road,  I  am  able  to  name  the  things  that  will 
attract  your  attention,  or  if,  after  the  cunning  toil  of 
others  is  done,  I  can  by  a  mere  unskilful  touch  throw 
a  little  light  on  your  path,  it  will  be  as  much  as  I 
ought  to  aim  at. 

The  Oedipus  Rex  of  Sophocles  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and  most  distinctly  characterized  of  the 
extant  Greek  tragedies.  Though  it  does  not  contain, 
like  the  Prometheus,  any  profound  intellectual  con- 
ception of  permanent  significance  and  value,  nor  any 
character  of  terrible  majesty  in  crime,  like  the  Aga- 
memnon, nor  yet  any  pure  and  noble  heroine,  like  the 
Antigone  and  the  Electra,  it  still  deserves  to  rank 
with  these  great  poems,  as  of  kindred  though  differ- 
ent excellence.  In  elaboration  of  plot,  in  the  com- 
plete and  sustained  presentment  of  a  natural  story,  it 
has  no  superior  among  the  Greek  plays  preserved  to 
our  time.  If  we  accept  Aristotle's  definition,  or 
rather  description,  of  tragedy,  that  it  excites  fear  and 
pity,  and  thereby  purifies  the  soul  in  the  sphere  of 
such  emotions,  we  can  hardly  find  a  better  illustration 
than  this  play  furnishes,  to  help  us  understand  the 
description  clearly.  For  here  the  pity  and  the  fear 
which  a  sensitive  reader  feels  are  centred  on  the 


THE  OEDIPUS  REX  OF  SOPHOKLES.        79 

same  person ;  their  causes  are  no  conscious  relations 
or  intelligent  actions  of  his ;  and  the  character  which 
made  him  liable  to  such  suffering  is,  by  the  very 
same  elements,  such  as  to  attract  our  sympathy.  A 
sketch  of  the  course  of  the  action  will  perhaps  make 
this  manifest,  and  will  serve  as  an  introduction  to 
some  comments  upon  it. 

The  play  opens  with  the  visit  of  a  company  of  the 
priests  and  people  of  Thebes  to  the  palace  of  their 
king,  Oedipus,  to  entreat  him  to  find  them  some 
relief  from  the  pestilence  which  is  desolating  the 
city.  He  has  been  in  peaceful  and  prosperous  pos- 
session of  the  throne  for  perhaps  ten  or  twelve  years, 
although  he  did  not  come  to  it  in  ordinary  succes- 
sion. His  predecessor,  Laios,  was  killed  by  some 
person  or  persons  unknown  while  on  a  journey  away 
from  home,  and  at  nearly  the  same  time  Oedipus, 
coming  as  a  stranger  to  Thebes  and  guessing  the  rid- 
dle of  the  Sphinx,  was  rewarded  with  the  throne  and 
the  wife  (lokasta)  of  the  missing  king.  Four  children 
had  been  born  to  them,  and  their  life  had  been  one 
of  undisturbed  happiness  until  the  coming  of  this 
pestilence.  Gratitude  for  that  former  deliverance, 
and  affection  to  him  as  a  loved  and  trusted  ruler, 
naturally  bring  the  suppliants  to  Oedipus  in  this  new 
trouble.  They  describe  the  sufferings  of  the  people, 
and  appeal  to  him,  alrffost  as  to  a  god,  by  his  previous 
succor,  to  help  them  now  again.  Oedipus  in  his 
answer  declares,  as  would  be  expected,  that  the  woes 
of  the  people  were  known  and  keenly  felt  by  him, 


80  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

and  tells  them  that  he  has  already  sent  Kreon, 
lokasta's  brother,  to  inquire  of  the  oracle  at  Delphi 
how  the  plague  could  be  checked,  and  that  he  was 
then  looking  for  his  return.  As  he  utters  these 
words,  the  priest  who  had  been  the  spokesman  of 
the  rest  sees  Kreon  approaching  with  his  head 
crowned  with  laurel,  which  is  interpreted  as  a  sign  of 
good  news.  Kreon  comes  upon  the  stage,  and  an- 
nounces in  answer  to  the  questions  of  Oedipus  that 
the  oracle  declares  the  plague  to  be  due  to  a  pollu- 
tion of  the  land  by  the  presence  in  it  of  the  mur- 
derer of  Laios,  and  that  it  could  be  checked  only  by 
his  banishment  or  death.  This  leads  to  a  series  of 
questions  from  Oedipus  in  regard  to  the  murder,  of 
which  he  knows  nothing ;  and  Kreon  in  his  answer 
states  that  one  of  the  companions  of  Laios  who  had 
escaped  reported  that  he  was  killed  by  robbers  who 
met  the  party  in  the  highway  and  slew  all  but  him- 
self, and  adds  that  the  investigation  of  the  matter  at 
the  time  had  been  prevented  by  the  all-absorbing 
distress  occasioned  by  the  presence  of  the  Sphinx. 
Oedipus,  forming  at  once  the  theory  that  the  mur- 
derer had  been  some  one  bribed  by  a  party  in  Thebes 
hostile  to  Laios,  declares  that  he  will  do  all  in  his 
power  to  discover  and  punish  the  criminal  as  a  mere 
measure  of  self-defence,  lest  a  similar  plot  should  be 
formed  against  him.  Thereupon,  at  his  suggestion, 
the  suppliants  retire,  having  accomplished  their  pur- 
pose, and  willing  to  leave  the  matter  now  with  the 
king  and  the  god  who  sent  the  oracle.  Here  ends 
the  prologue  or  opening  act. 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOCLES.  8 1 

The  chorus,  consisting  of  elderly  men,  citizens  of 
Thebes  and  representatives  of  its  people,  now  comes 
forward,  apparently  summoned  by  a  messenger  from 
Oedipus.  In  his  presence,  but  before  he  has  spoken 
to  them,  they  break  out  in  a  prayer  to  the  gods  for 
help  in  the  city's  trouble.  They  describe  the  dis- 
tress arising  from  the  plague  in  similar  terms  to 
those  already  used  by  the  priest,  and  found  upon  it 
a  yet  more  urgent  appeal  to  Zeus,  Apollo,  Artemis, 
and  Bacchus.  They  know  that  an  oracle  has  come, 
but  what  it  is  they  know  not ;  hence  they  can  only 
pray  in  vague  terms  for  relief. 

Oedipus,  in  response  to  their  prayer,  states  to  them 
the  proclamation  which  he  proposes  to  make,  and  on 
which  he  seems  to  rely  for  the  discovery  of  the  crimi- 
nal more  than  upon  prayer.  It  calls  upon  whoever  has 
any  knowledge  in  regard  to  the  murderer  to  commu- 
nicate it  at  once  to  him,  and  threatens  a  sort  of  banish- 
ment, or  rather  excommunication,  upon  him  who  hides 
his  knowledge.  The  chorus,  accepting  his  adjuration, 
deny  all  knowledge  of  the  matter,  and  suggest  that 
the  prophet  Teiresias  should  be  consulted.  Oedipus 
has  already  sent  for  him,  and,  as  he  now  comes  in, 
proceeds  to  inform  him  of  the  oracle,  and  asks  his  help 
to  discover  at  whom  it  points.  To  his  surprise  and 
indignation,  Teiresias  refuses  to  give  any  information, 
saying  he  would  not  have  come  if  he  had  fully  under- 
stood the  purpose  for  which  he  was  summoned.  Oedi- 
pus urges  him,  but  he  persistently  refuses,  asserting 
that  he,  Oedipus,  knows  not  what  he  is  asking,  and 


82  STUDIES    IN    GREEK   THOUGHT. 

that  for  his  sake  it  cannot  be  told.  In  the  excitement 
of  dispute,  Oedipus  at  last  charges  the  prophet  with 
having  been  himself  privy  to  the  killing  of  Laios.  Then 
Teiresias  is  roused  to  charge  upon  him,  at  first  very 
vaguely,  but  with  growing  clearness,  that  he,  the  king} 
is  involved  in  the  pollution  and  guilt  which  has  brought 
such  disaster  on  the  country.  In  the  violent  alterca- 
tion which  follows,  Teiresias  refers  for  confirmation  of 
his  words  to  Apollo,  whose  minister  he  is,  the  god  of 
prophets  and  oracles.  This  instantly  reminds  Oedipus 
that  Kreon  had  just  come  from  the  Delphic  oracle  of 
Apollo,  and  suggests  to  him  that  Kreon  and  Teiresias 
were  in  conspiracy  to  eject  him  from  the  throne. 
This  idea,  in  harmony  with  his  previous  theory  of  a 
former  plot  against  Laios,  takes  firm  possession  of  his 
mind,  and  he  expands  it  in  terms  of  bitter  reproach. 
Teiresias  is  stung  by  this  attack  into  more  express 
revelations  of  the  condition  in  which  Oedipus  is  now 
ignorantly  placed,  and  the  terrible  future  that  awaits 
him  ;  but  Oedipus,  blinded  by  anger,  and  misled  by 
his  fixed  theory  of  the  motive  of  the  prophet,  cannot 
understand  him.  A  chance  allusion  on  the  part  of 
Teiresias  to  the  parents  of  Oedipus  arrests  his  atten- 
tion, and  makes  him  ask  a  question,  which,  if  plainly 
answered,  would  bring  out  the  whole  truth  ;  but  Tei- 
resias is  too  angry,  and  only  tells  him  he  will  soon 
learn  what  he  asks.  Then,  with  another  enigmatical 
threat,  he  leaves  the  stage,  and  the  second  act  ends. 

The  chorus,  having  now  learnt  the  answer  of  the 
oracle,  wonders  who  the  guilty  man  can  be,  yet  feel 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  83 

sure  that  it  is  hopeless  for  him  to  try  to  escape  the 
punishment  which  the  gods  are  preparing  for  him. 
The  altercation  between  the  king  and  the  prophet 
plunges  them  into  perplexity  and  distress,  for  they 
regard  both  men  with  confidence  and  respect,  and 
cannot  tell  which  is  in  the  right.  Yet  they  decide, 
for  the  present,  not  to  give  up  their  faith  in  Oedipus, 
who  has  shown  himself,  on  thorough  trial,  such  a 
benefactor  to  Thebes. 

Kreon  now  appears,  having  heard  the  rumor  of 
charges  made  against  him  by  Oedipus,  and  eager  to 
clear  himself  from  them.  Oedipus  presently  comes 
out  from  the  palace  and  states  plainly  the  accusation 
of  conspiracy  to  get  possession  of  the  throne.  Kreon, 
of  course,  denies  the  charge,  and  proves  the  entire 
absence  of  any  reasonable  foundation  for  it.  But 
Oedipus  is  not  convinced,  for  he  has  conceived  his 
own  theory  of  the  matter,  and  will  not  readily  give  it 
up.  He  declares  his  purpose  to  put  Kreon  to  death 
as  a  necessary  measure  of  defence  for  the  state  and 
for  himself.  At  this  point,  lokasta,  attracted  by  the 
sound  of  their  voices  in  high  dispute,  comes  out  and 
remonstrates  with  them  for  thus  wrangling  in  public. 
Both  men  address  themselves  to  her,  Kreon  with  an 
appeal  to  the  gods  asserting  his  innocence.  She 
calls  upon  Oedipus  to  respect  that  oath,  and  is  sup- 
ported by  the  chorus  to  the  same  effect.  Oedipus 
yields  to  their  urging,  so  far  as  to  let  Kreon  go  safely 
away,  but  does  not  yet  lay  aside  his  anger.  When 
Kreon  is  gone,  lokasta  asks  the  cause  of  the  quarrel, 


84  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

and  learns  from  Oedipus  his  theory,  that  Kreon  had 
instigated  the  prophet  to  denounce  him  as  the  mur- 
derer of  Laios.  To  relieve  him  from  any  anxiety 
arising  from  prophets  or  oracles,  she  tells  him  then  of 
a  previous  prophecy,  in  regard  to  the  death  of  Laios, 
which  had  been  falsified  by  the  result.  It  had  been 
foretold  that  he  should  die  by  the  hand  of  a  son  of 
himself  and  lokasta  :  but  they  exposed  their  only 
child  to  die  on  a  mountain,  and  Laios  was  long  after- 
wards killed  by  robbers,  at  a  place  where  three  ways 
met.  So,  she  reasons,  there  is  no  use  in  paying  any 
heed  to  prophecies,  if  they  are  not  sure  to  be  fulfilled  ; 
the  will  of  the  gods  is  better  declared  by  the  results 
they  bring  to  pass.  Her  story  was  meant  to  comfort 
Oedipus,  but  one  phrase  in  it  disturbs  him  rather. 
He  asks  more  particularly  about  the  place  "  where 
three  ways  met,"  and  learns  that  it  was  in  Phokis,  not 
far  from  Delphi.  Then  he  asks  about  the  time  of  the 
killing,  and  is  told  that  it  was  just  before  he  himself 
came  to  Thebes.  His  interest  increases,  and  he  in- 
quires what  sort  of  a  man  Laios  was  in  appearance, 
and  in  what  company  he  was  travelling  when  he  was 
killed.  The  answers  make  him  still  more  agitated, 
and  he  insists  that  the  man  who  had  escaped  to  tell 
the  story,  and  who  was  now  a  herdsman  at  a  pasture 
far  from  the  city,  be  at  once  sent  for.  lokasta  prom- 
ises this,  but  naturally  asks,  in  her  turn,  why  he  is  so 
much  excited  by  her  answers.  He  then  tells  her, 
what  strangely,  perhaps,  he  seems  never  to  have 
told  her  before,  the  story  of  his  life  up  to  his  appear- 


THE    OEDIPUS   REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  8$ 

ance  at  Thebes,  —  how  his  father  was  ruler  of 
Korinth,  and  he  had  grown  up  respected  there  until 
one  day  a  man  at  a  feast  insulted  him  with  the 
charge  that  he  was  not  really  born  of  his  supposed 
parents.  When  he  appealed  to  them,  they  resented 
the  intimation,  but,  as  it  still  rankled  in  his  mind,  he 
finally  went  off  secretly  to  consult  the  oracle  at 
Delphi.  There  he  got  no  information  as  to  the  past, 
but  a  terrible  statement  as  to  the  future, — that  it 
was  his  destiny  to  slay  his  own  father  and  to  be 
joined  in  incestuous  marriage  with  his  mother.  In 
dread  of  such  a  complication,  he  wandered  off,  care- 
less whither  he  went  provided  it  was  not  back  to 
Korinth,  where  were  the  only  father  and  mother  he 
knew.  As  he  walked  along  the  road,  he  met  a  party 
with  a  chariot,  and,  becoming  involved  in  a  quarrel 
with  them,  killed,  as  he  supposed,  all  of  them.  The 
place,  —  "  where  three  ways  met,"  —  the  time,  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  leader  of  the  party,  the  number  of  per- 
sons in  it,  all  correspond  with  what  lokasta  has  told 
him  of  the  circumstances  of  the  killing  of  Laios,  so 
that  he  greatly  fears  lest  he  may  be  himself  the  man 
guilty  of  that  crime  and  under  the  curse  of  excom- 
munication that  he  has  himself  pronounced.  Must 
he  be  an  outcast  again,  still  unable  to  return  to 
Korinth  lest  he  may  unwittingly  fulfill  that  terrible 
oracle  given  him  at  Delphi  ?  He  only  waits,  to  see 
the  man  who  had  escaped  and  brought  news  of  the 
murder,  to  learn  whether  he  will  say  that  Laios  was 
killed  in  conflict  with  a  single  robber  or  with  several ; 


86  STUDIES    IN    GREEK   THOUGHT. 

for,  if  the  latter,  he  is  certainly  clear.  lokasta  still 
encourages  him,  for  the  earlier  oracle  had  said  Laios 
was  to  die  by  the  hand  of  his  own  son,  and  that  cer- 
tainly had  not  proved  true,  so  that  he  need  not  be  so 
afraid  of  oracles.  "  True  enough,"  says  he ;  "  but 
still  send  for  the  herdsman."  Here  ends  the  third 
act. 

Now  comes  in,  to  interrupt  the  course  of  action,  the 
second  song  of  the  chorus.  They  are  even  more  dis- 
tressed and  perplexed  about  the  matter  now,  and  do 
not  seem  so  sure  as  before  that  justice  will  speedily  be 
done.  The  coincidences  which  disturbed  Oedipus  in  his 
confidence  do  not  seem  to  have  fallen  upon  their  loyal 
minds  with  so  much  force ;  but  the  impious  contempt 
for  oracles  expressed  by  lokasta  shocks  them ;  their 
song  is  a  prayer  and  a  protest  against  such  sinful 
daring.  They  will  not  cease  to  make  the  god  their 
defence.  There  is  some  dreadful  mystery  in  this 
violation  of  the  eternal  laws  of  heaven,  a  fearful  out- 
growth of  pride  and  excess.  If  such  deeds  are  to  go 
unpunished,  where  is  religion  and  the  honor  of  the 
gods  ? 

As  if  in  answer  to  their  prayer,  lokasta  comes  out 
from  the  palace  in  a  very  different  frame  of  mind 
from  that  with  which  she  had  gone  in.  Oedipus  has 
been  aroused  and  excited  by  what  she  had  told  him, 
beyond  her  power  to  understand  or  control  him,  and 
in  a  kind  of  panic  she  comes  to  supplicate  the  very 
god  whose  oracles  she  had  spurned,  to  help  her  now. 
To  her  in  this  temper  comes  a  messenger,  who  seems 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  8/ 

to  bring  just  what  she  was  wishing  for.  He  comes 
from  Korinth  to  say  that  the  people  there  desire 
Oedipus  to  be  their  ruler,  since  Polybos  has  just  died 
from  old  age.  She  sees  at  once  how  much  this 
means,  forgets  all  about  her  prayer  to  Apollo,  utters 
in  a  word  her  regained  scorn  of  the  oracles,  and 
eagerly  sends  for  Oedipus  to  tell  him  of  the  death, 
from  natural  cause,  of  the  man  whom  it  had  been 
foretold  that  he  should  kill.  It  seems  too  clear  a 
case  for  him  to  doubt  any  more,  and  so  he  joins  in 
and  even  outdoes  her  contempt  for  the  falsified  ora- 
cle. Yet  there  is  one  thing  that  makes  him  hesitate 
to  go  at  once  to  Korinth  and  accept  the  throne,  — 
the  wife  of  Polybos  is  still  living,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  oracle  about  his  marrying  his  mother, 
which  may  somehow  come  true  so  long  as  she  lives. 
When  he  gives  this  explanation  to  the  messenger,  he 
laughs  at  such  a  fear,  and,  with  the  single  purpose  of 
clearing  it  away,  tells  him  that  he  is  not  the  true  son 
of  Polybos,  but  that  he  himself,  the  messenger,  had 
once,  when  a  messenger  on  Mt.  Kithaeron,  received 
him  as  an  infant  from  one  of  the  shepherds  of  Laios, 
and  had  given  him  to  the  king  of  Korinth  to  bring 
up.  So  if  Oedipus  cares  to  trace  his  real  descent,  he 
must  find  that  Theban  shepherd;  and  he  turns  to 
lokasta  to  inquire  about  him,  whom  the  chorus 
think  to  have  been  also  the  attendant  of  Laios  on  his 
last  journey.  But  she  has  heard  too  much  already. 
She  tries  to  turn  off  the  question  carelessly,  as  of  no 
importance.  When  he  persists,  she  implores  him  by 


88          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

the  gods,  by  his  love  of  life,  by  his  love  for  her,  to 
forget  all  that  has  been  said  and  abandon  the  whole 
inquiry.  He  mistakes  her  motive,  thinking  she  fears 
he  may  find  himself  to  have  sprung  from  a  low  family, 
and,  now  thoroughly  aroused  to  solve  the  old  long-for- 
gotten doubt  as  to  his  parentage,  determines  to  follow 
up  this  clue  and  find  out,  at  any  cost,  who  his  parents 
were.  She  leaves  the  stage,  in  silent  agony  of  de- 
spair, foreseeing  the  terrible  revelation.  He  remains, 
despising  her  woman's  pride,  and  trusting  that  the 
good  luck  which  has  given  him  this  throne,  and 
whose  child  he  jestingly  calls  himself,  will  still  be- 
friend him.  So  the  fourth  act  ends. 

The  chorus,  taking  his  tone,  rejoice  in  the  thought 
that  soon  his  mysterious  parents,  perhaps  some  moun- 
tain nymph  and  wandering  god,  will  be  made  known, 
and  all  the  trouble  ended ;  but  their  song  is  short. 
The  old  Theban  shepherd  comes  in,  sent  for  by 
lokasta,  we  must  remember,  as  the  only  man  who 
had  witnessed  the  killing  of  Laios ;  but  there  is  no 
thought  now  of  asking  him  about  that.  He  is  con- 
fronted with  the  Korinthian  messenger  and  recog- 
nized by  him  at  once.  His  own  memory  is  feebler, 
but  with  a  reminder  from  him  he  recalls  their  old 
acquaintance.  Then  he  is  asked  about  the  infant, 
and  told  that  Oedipus,  king  of  Thebes,  is  the  same 
person.  At  once  he  suspects  what  is  coming,  and 
refuses  to  answer  any  questions.  By  threats  from 
the  king  he  is  compelled  to  tell  what  he  knows,  and 
so  the  dreadful  truth  comes  out  that  Oedipus  himself 


THE  OEDIPUS  REX  OF  SOPHOKLES.       89 

is  the  son  of  Laios  and  lokasta,  and  already  the  mur- 
derer of  his  father  and  husband  of  his  own  mother. 
Oedipus  curses  himself  and  rushes  into  the  palace. 

In  bitter  contrast  to  their  last  hymn  of  joy  and 
hope,  the  chorus  now  bewail  the  lot  of  man,  so  brief 
in  its  enjoyment  of  prosperity,  as  this  example  teaches 
with  terrible  plainness.  They  are  still  loyal  to  their 
former  regard  for  Oedipus,  and  have  no  feeling  to- 
wards him  but  pity. 

Then  comes  a  messenger  from  within  the  palace, 
and  narrates,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Greek 
stage,  the  dreadful  events  that  had  occurred  within. 
He  tells  how  lokasta  had  come  in,  tearing  her  hair 
and  lamenting  bitterly,  and  had  entered  her  chamber, 
when  suddenly  his  attention  was  drawn  away  by  the 
entrance  of  Oedipus,  raving  and  calling  for  a  sword, 
and  demanding  to  be  told  where  lokasta  was.  No 
one  would  tell  him ;  but  he  suspecting,  burst  open 
the  doors  of  the  chamber  and  there  found  her  hanging 
lifeless.  Then,  with  most  furious  curses,  he  snatched 
the  golden  buckles  from  her  dress,  and  with  them 
tore  out  his  own  eyes, — that  they  might  nevermore, 
even  in  Hades,  see  the  persons  involved  in  his  unwit- 
ting crimes.  While  the  chorus  is  lamenting  his 
madness,  he  comes  forth  in  his  wretched  blindness, 
carrying  the  buckles  still  in  his  hand,  and  after  inco- 
herent exclamations  to  himself,  recognizes  the  voices 
of  his  friends,  and  joins  them  in  bewailing  his  misery. 
Then,  in  a  long  passage  of  somewhat  calmer  tone,  he 
justifies  his  self-mutilation,  and  reviews  his  life  in  the 


Cp  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

light  of  the  shocking  discovery  of  his  real  relations 
to  those  about  him.  While  he  is  thus  speaking  Kreon 
comes  in,  whom  he  knows  not  how  to  address,  re- 
membering those  unfounded  suspicions  which  he  had 
held  when  he  was  mentally  blind.  But  Kreon  re-as- 
sures him  in  kind  words  of  pity,  and  presently  has  his 
two  daughters  brought  out  to  him,  whom  Oedipus 
entrusts  to  his  care,  bidding  them  a  tender  farewell. 
Kreon  then  leads  him  away,  with  some  last  words 
which  hint  that  he  may  not  continue  to  be  so  gentle 
and  friendly  in  his  treatment  of  the  helpless  sufferer; 
and  the  play  ends  with  the  reflection  from  the  chorus 
that  no  man  can  be  pronounced  happy  until  his  life 
is  seen  through  to  its  last  day. 

This  outline,  inadequate  as  it  must  seem  to  one 
who  knows  the  original,  may  yet  be  of  use  in  recall- 
ing the  distinguishing  peculiarity  of  this  play,  viz., 
the  degree  to  which  its  interest  depends  upon  the 
plot.  It  is  the  only  one  of  the  Greek  tragedies, 
with  perhaps  a  single  exception,  in  which  a  secret 
is  kept  from  most  of  the  persons  concerned  until 
near  the  end,  upon  which  secret  the  whole  story 
hangs.  In  the  nature  of  the  material  used  by  the 
Greek  tragic  poets,  it  was  almost  impossible  that  this 
should  often  be  the  case.  For  they  used  old  myths 
which  were  familiar  to  the  audience  in  their  whole 
structure,  and  in  which,  therefore,  it  was  not  easy  to 
succeed  with  a  surprise.  It  should  be  said,  however, 
in  justice  to  their  art,  that  this  was  not  always  a 
hampering  restriction.  They  constructed  their  plays 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  9 1 

in  free  recognition  of  it,  making  the  interest  and  the 
exercise  of  poetic  and  dramatic  power  depend  upon 
other  elements  than  intricacy  of  plot.  They  allowed 
themselves,  too,  some  measure  of  freedom  in  the 
treatment  of  the  traditional  myths,  in  minor  points, — 
a  freedom  which  was  abused  by  the  last  of  the  three 
whose  works  we  have,  whether  from  lack  of  invention 
or  from  some  defect  in  his  principles  of  art.  It  is  a 
signal  triumph  of  the  strong  and  disciplined  genius 
of  Sophokles,  that  he  constructs  this  play  with  a 
catastrophe  perfectly  familiar  to  his  audience,  yet  so 
skilfully  that  one  might  hear  it  often  and  still  be  as 
much  absorbed  in  the  unfolding  action  as  if  he  were 
as  ignorant  of  the  end  as  the  characters  are  supposed 
to  be.  Let  us  analyze  this  delicate  work  a  little. 

The  poet  has  two  objects  to  accomplish  in  laying 
out  his  plan.  One  is  to  bring  about  the  revelation 
of  the  secret  of  the  birth  of  Oedipus  in  a  perfectly 
natural  way,  without  the  voluntary  intervention  of 
any  human  agent.  This  absence  of  voluntary  hu- 
man agency  is  emphasized  by  the  poet,  and  seems  to 
have  been  necessary,  in  his  view  ;  perhaps  for  the 
reason  that  he  wished  to  show  how  the  gods  work 
out  their  plans  without  the  conscious  help  of  man, 
and  even  against  his  will.  The  means  which  the  poet 
uses  to  bring  about  the  revelation  are  the  plague, 
the  quick  temper  of  Oedipus,  the  death  of  Polybos 
from  old  age,  the  hope  of  gain  on  the  part  of  the 
Korinthian  shepherd,  and  the  love  of  the  Theban 
shepherd  for  Laios.  The  plague  lies  at  the  founda- 


92  STUDIES    IN    GREEK   THOUGHT. 

tion  of  the  whole  action,  so  far  as  it  is  contained  in 
this  play,  furnishing  not  only  a  natural  opening 
scene  (the  point  in  dramatic  art  which  was  such  a 
stumbling-block  to  Euripides),  but  also  the  condition 
without  which  the  succeeding  events  could  not,  in 
their  present  shape,  be  explained.  It  is  the  first 
shock  to  the  prosperity  of  Oedipus  since  he  came  to 
Thebes,  and,  of  course,  it  soon  brings  a  strain  upon 
the  weak  point  in  his  present  position.  It  is  a  blow 
from  the  gods,  aimed  directly  at  him,  in  such  form 
that,  while  it  reveals  nothing  to  him,  it  compels  him 
to  act,  and,  by  his  action,  to  bring  out  at  last  the 
whole  secret.  He  acts  promptly  in  the  way  which 
seems  to  him  best  at  the  time,  and  which  yet  recoils 
upon  him  later.  The  moment  his  proposed  course  of 
action  receives  a  check  from  Teiresias,  his  temper  is 
roused,  and  he  becomes  committed  to  a  theory  which 
he  holds  obstinately.  This  theory  makes  him  quar- 
rel violently  with  Kreon,  all  without  suspicion  that 
he  is  preparing  repentance  and  woe  for  himself. 
The  quarrel  with  Kreon  brings  lokasta  on  the  scene, 
and  she,  merely  to  relieve  him  from  anxiety  regard- 
ing the  alleged  oracle,  tells  the  story  of  the  death  of 
Laios,  in  which  one  incidental  phrase,  "the  place 
where  three  ways  met,"  gives  the  first  serious  shock 
to  his  conviction  of  innocence  of  the  murder.  This 
leads  to  a  review  of  his  life,  and  so  brings  back  to 
his  thought  the  never-solved  question  as  to  his 
parentage.  All  this  grows  naturally,  and  without 
intention,  out  of  his  quickness  of  temper.  Then 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  93 

comes  in  the  shepherd  from  Korinth,  whose  hope  of  a 
reward  (as  is  stated  in  lines  1005  f.)  had  made  him 
eager  to  be  the  first  to  bring  the  news  to  Oedipus  of 
the  throne  awaiting  him.  It  seems  strange  that  he 
should  be  the  very  man  who  had  received  him  when 
an  outcast  in  infancy ;  but,  apparently,  the  poet  sup- 
posed that  he  was  stimulated  by  that  hope  of  gain 
to  keep  himself  informed  as  to  the  life  of  Oedipus 
after  he  left  Korinth.  His  revelation  that  Oedipus 
was  not  the  son  of  Polybos  comes  out  in  simple, 
ignorant  desire  to  deliver  him  from  anxiety  about 
returning  to  Korinth,  not  from  any  purpose  to  con- 
tribute to  the  exposure  of  his  hidden  calamity. 
Finally,  the  Theban  shepherd,  the  one  person  in  the 
country,  unless  we  except  Teiresias,  who  knew  the 
murderer  of  Laios,  and  the  only  one  who  knew  that 
the  son  of  Laios  and  lokasta  might  still  be  living 
(though,  of  course,  even  he  had  never  connected  the 
two  things),  comes  in  to  do  his  part.  At  his  own 
request,  and  apparently  from  a  love  to-Laios  that 
made  the  sight  of  his  murderer  on  his  throne  in- 
tolerable, he  had  been  sent  out  of  the  way  of  telling 
his  knowledge  since  Oedipus  came  to  Thebes,  and  had 
heard  nothing  of  the  new  oracle  about  the  plague. 
He  is  now  brought  in  to  testify  as  to  the  murder, 
and,  against  his  will,  is  compelled  to  testify  as  to  the 
parentage.  Thus  it  appears  that  every  incident,  ex- 
cept the  plague  and  the  oracle,  comes  into  the  series 
by  human  action,  from  some  motive  entirely  apart 
from  the  discovery  of  the  guilt  of  Oedipus. 


94          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

The  other  object  of  the  poet  is  to  put  Oedipus  in 
the  wrong  in  his  attitude  towards  the  gods  in  this 
part  of  his  life,  so  that  his  terrible  fate  may  not 
seem  wholly  undeserved.  This  is  a  matter  which  it 
is  important  to  have  fully  recognized,  if  it  is  true, 
because  it  is  not  apt  to  be  recognized  at  all  in  mod- 
ern estimates  of  the  play.  Most  of  the  current  pop- 
ular references  to  this  story  speak  of  it  as  one  in 
which  a  perfectly  innocent  person  is  dragged  by  a 
cruel  fate,  determined  for  him  before  he  was  born, 
into  horrible  deeds,  and  then  into  dreadful,  unmerited 
ruin.  The  representation  of  the  play  here  a  year  ago 
furnished  the  occasion  for  a  vigorous  article  in  a  Bos- 
ton periodical,  based  wholly  on  this  false  idea.  It 
so  happens  that,  besides  the  evidence  in  the  play 
itself,  we  can  bring  an  independent,  ancient  au- 
thority of  no  little  weight  to  prove  the  falseness  of 
that  idea.  It  is  well  known  that  Aristotle,  in  his 
treatise  on  poetics,  uses  this  particular  play  perhaps 
more  than  any  other,  to  furnish  illustrations  or  proofs 
of  the  rules  he  lays  down.  One  of  these  rules  is, 
that  the  hero  of  a  tragedy  must  be  a  noble  character, 
but  not  without  a^apria,  that  is,  not  without  some 
fault  or  defect ;  on  the  ground  that,  if  he  is  a  per- 
fectly innocent  person,  his  suffering  would  not  ex- 
cite the  spectator's  pity  or  terror,  but  rather,  his 
indignation  and  horror ;  and  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  is  made  too  great  a  villain,  the  spectator  would 
merely  think  he  was  getting  his  deserts.  Then  he 
goes  on  to  mention  two  examples  of  such  noble 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX  OF    SOPHOKLES.  95 

heroes  with  the  requisite  faults,  and  one  of  them  is 
Oedipus.  Now  the  mere  dictum  of  Aristotle  is  not 
one  to  which  every  head  must  bow,  and  it  may  be 
that  some  wholly  admirable  tragedy  has  been  writ- 
ten with  a  faultless  hero.  But  the  thing  for  which  I 
quote  him  is  his  opinion  that,  in  fact,  Oedipus  is  not 
made  by  Sophokles  such  a  faultless  hero,  and  on  that 
point,  surely,  his  judgment  ought  to  be  respected. 
Let  us  then  see,  if  we  can,  in  what  the  fault  of 
Oedipus  consists.  We  find  that  the  course  of  the 
action  brings  him,  by  virtue  of  his  own  character 
and  conduct,  into  such  a  relation  to  the  gods  as  can- 
not help  suggesting  to  a  Greek  audience  some  pain- 
ful result.  His  first  words  to  the  chorus,  after  their 
prayer  for  divine  relief,  convey  a  hint  that  he  is  dis- 
posed to  trust  more  to  his  own  proclamation  and  the 
authority  of  the  government  than  to  the  help  of  the 
gods.  Then  his  sudden  anger  and  wanton  suspicion 
in  regard  to  the  prophet,  and  contempt  for  his  sacred 
character,  would  seem  the  very  thing  to  draw  down 
upon  him  some  punishment.  When  lokasta  first 
expresses  her  disregard  of  the  oracle,  he  does  not 
interrupt  her  with  rebuke.  When  she  gives  reasons, 
and  speaks  yet  more  scornfully,  he  assents.  When, 
finally,  the  messenger  comes  with  news  of  the  death 
of  Polybos  from  old  a*ge,  which  seems  to  put  beyond 
all  possibility  the  fulfilment  of  the  oracle  that  he 
should  kill  his  father,  he  rivals  her  in  triumphing 
over  the  baffled  prophecy.  These  things  are  not  for- 
gotten. When,  at  the  end,  he  comes  out  blinded 


96  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

and  bleeding,  and  the  chorus  ask  him  what  god  has 
impelled  him  to  such  a  deed,  he  answers,  "  Apollo  ! 
Apollo  it  was  who  brought  to  pass  this  bitter,  bitter 
woe  of  mine!"  But  Apollo  was  the  god  of  the 
Delphic  oracle.  Though,  indeed,  the  ultimate  cause 
of  his  misery  was  his  involuntary  parricide  and  in- 
cest, yet  the  shock  with  which  the  discovery  came, 
and  its  fearful  consequences,  are  to  be  ascribed  to 
the  sin  of  contempt  of  the  gods,  into  which  too  great 
confidence  in  his  prosperity  had  betrayed  him.  No 
one  can  study  the  tragedies  of  Aeschylus  and  Sopho- 
kles  without  recognizing  the  prominence  in  their 
view  of  this  particular  kind  of  sin,  as  provoking  the 
wrath  of  the  gods.  In  this  play  it  takes  a  form  cor- 
responding to  the  rest  of  the  plot,  and  seems  to 
be  brought  on  inevitably  by  the  action  of  such  inci- 
dents upon  such  a  character. 

One  or  two  minor  features  of  the  plot  also  deserve 
passing  notice.  The  fact  that  it  was  Kreon,  the 
natural  successor  to  the  throne  as  regent,  in  the 
minority  of  the  sons  of  Oedipus,  who  was  sent  to 
Delphi  for  information  as  to  the  plague,  prepares  the 
way  for  the  suspicion  that  he  was  in  league  with  the 
prophet  to  put  Oedipus  out  of  the  way.  The  quar- 
rel with  Kreon  subsequently  not  only  furnishes  an 
occasion  for  lokasta,  his  sister,  as  well  as  the  wife  of 
Oedipus,  to  come  out  and  remonstrate  with  them, 
thereby  bringing  her  with  her  story  of  the  murder 
into  the  action,  but  also  adds  greatly  to  the  impres- 
sion of  the  closing  dialogue  between  the  two  men  in 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  97 

relations  so  changed,  —  Oedipus  repentant,  and  Kreon 
forgiving.  This  last  scene  would  have  been  just  as 
possible,  though  not  nearly  so  effective,  if,  in  the 
previous  scene,  Oedipus  had  merely  expressed  to 
others,  in  Kreon's  absence,  his  suspicions  of  him. 
The  introduction  of  Teiresias  likewise  effects  a  two- 
fold purpose.  On  the  one  hand,  his  refusal  to  an- 
swer the  question  put  to  him  starts  Oedipus  on  his 
course  of  opposition  to  the  gods,  and,  on  the  other, 
it  is  his  relation  to  Apollo,  the  god  of  Delphi,  that 
suggests  collusion  on  his  part  with  Kreon,  and  thus 
introduces  the  train  of  events  that  follow  upon  the 
quarrel  with  the  latter. 

The  whole  play,  like  many  others,  is  marked  by, 
or  rather  consists  of,  a  series  of  alternate  movements 
in  opposite  directions,  and  with  opposite  effects  on 
the  feelings  of  the  audience.  First,  the  deputation 
of  priests  describe  the  sufferings  of  the  city  under 
the  plague  ;  and  then  Oedipus,  comforting  them  with 
sympathy,  is  presently  enabled,  b^y  Kreon's  arrival, 
to  point  out  a  definite  cause  of  the  calamity,  and  to 
promise  that  every  means  shall  be  taken  to  remove 
it.  Next,  the  chorus,  on  its  entrance,  fills  the  mind 
again  with  the  dismal  scenes  of  the  general  misery ; 
and  Oedipus  again,  by  his  strong,  confident  declara- 
tions of  what  he  is  going  to  do,  seems  to  clear  away 
half  the  trouble  at  once.  The  strange  conduct  and 
incredible  statements  of  Teiresias  cannot  fail  to 
make  the  hearer  dread  something,  though  he  hardly 
knows  what,  before  which  Oedipus  seems  helpless  as 


98          STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

a  child ;  but  when  he  has  to  deal  with  Kreon,  though 
we  may  think  him  hasty  and  overbearing,  yet  he 
seems  strong  enough  to  crush  mere  human  opposi- 
tion, and  to  make  a  way  for  the  State  into  peace.  In 
his  conversation  with  lokasta,  however,  he  is  plainly 
overpowered  by  the  close  coincidences  of  her  ac- 
count of  the  murder  with  his  own  recollections,  and 
feels  again  the  presence  of  some  mystery  which  may 
be  too  much  for  him.  The  coming  of  the  news  from 
Korinth  naturally  lifts  him  into  freedom  from  fear, 
but  it  is  only  for  a  moment ;  and  the  determination 
which  the  other  fact,  learnt  from  the  same  man,  ex- 
cites in  him  to  discover  at  any  cost  his  real  parents, 
presently  plunges  him,  in  spite  of  the  gleam  of  hope 
seen  in  the  song  of  the  chorus,  into  the  depth  of  misery. 
After  the  first  rush  of  horror  and  self-condemnation, 
there  comes  again  a  reaction,  and  the  play  leaves  the 
audience  at  last  somewhat  soothed  by  the  compara- 
tively quiet  final  scene.  It  is  manifest  how  these 
changes  add  to  the  life  and  interest  of  the  action, 
•and  also  how  they  serve  to  retard  the  movement  of 
events,  and  postpone  the  coming  of  the  fatal  dis- 
covery. Some  one  has  said  of  the  Odyssey  that  the 
whole  plot  would  be  broken  down  by  the  existence 
of  a  post-office  system,  so  that  Penelope  might  have 
heard  from  Odysseus  occasionally.  Surely,  in  this  play, 
if  Teiresias  had  come  to  Oedipus  in  a  calm  hour,  and 
told  him  what  he  knew  as  a  prophet  about  his  life, 
or  if,  by  any  other  natural  means,  he  might  have 
learned  it  earlier,  the  whole  structure  would  break 


THE  OEDIPUS  REX  OF  SOPHOKLES.       99 

down.  However,  it  is  plain  that  the  poet,  with  artis- 
tic design,  makes  a  gradual  approach  to  his  climax, 
letting  the  anger  of  Oedipus  prevent  his  believing, 
or  even  listening  to,  the  significant  words  of  the 
prophet ;  making  lokasta  6k>  all  she  can  to  dissuade 
him  from  pursuing  the  investigation  after  she  sees 
whither  it  tends ;  bringing  in  the  news  from  Korinth 
to  give  him  a  moment's  delusive  comfort  before  his 
fall.  A  notable  instance  of  this  designed  delay  has 
been  already  mentioned,  —  that  when  Teiresias  says, 
"  Your  parents,  however,  thought  me  inspired,"  Oedi- 
pus suddenly  asks  him,  "  Who  ?  Stop  !  Who  were 
my  parents  ?  "  An  answer  to  this  question  would  have 
ended  the  play  there,  but  Teiresias  has  been  angered 
beyond  such  compliance,  and  puts  him  off  with  the 
riddle,  "  This  day  shall  bring  you  parents  and  ruin." 
It  is  in  some  sense  a  consequence  of  this  character 
of  the  plot  that  the  play  exhibits  in  especial  frequency 
what  has  been  called  the  irony  of  Sophokles.  The 
word  irony,  though  perhaps  the  best  that  our  language 
affords,  does  not  strictly  in  its  English  use  express 
the  idea  that  is  here  intended.  If  I  understand  its 
modern  usage,  it  implies  generally  some  measure 
of  contempt,  good-natured  contempt  sometimes,  when 
a  man  feels  perfectly  sure  of  his  own  position  or 
powers  and  plays  with  an  adversary,  but  still  a  real 
looking  down  upon  one  who  might  claim  to  be  an 
equal.  The  Greek  word,  as  defined  and  illustrated 
originally,  does  not  seem  to  have  implied  this.  The 
quality  is  defined  by  Aristotle  as  the  pretence  or  as- 


IOO  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

sumed  appearance  of  being  worse  in  some  respect 
than  one  really  is.  He  speaks  of  irony  as  lying  on 
one  side  of  the  truth,  and  of  boasting  or  arrogance  as 
lying  on  the  opposite  side.  And  he  acutely  adds, 
that  the  pretence  of  the  worse  or  humbler  condition 
may  proceed  from  something  very  like  arrogance ; 
which  recalls  the  story  that  Diogenes,  in  his  squalor, 
walked  in  over  the  rich  rugs  in  Plato's  house,  saying, 
"Thus  I  trample  on  the  pride  of  Plato."  "Yes," 
answered  Plato,  "  and  with  a  no  less  pride  of  your 
own."  The  prime  illustration  of  irony  in  this  Greek 
sense  is  Sokrates  in  the  dialogues  of  Plato,  where  he 
assumes  the  tone  of  ignorance  and  desire  for  informa- 
tion, and  through  his  questions  exposes  the  ignorance 
of  another. 

Now  the  word  irony  as  used  of  the  dramatic  poet 
means  something  different  from  either  of  these  senses. 
For  the  poet  has  no  adversary,  and  cannot  properly 
manifest  contempt  for  his  characters.  He  is  the 
creator  of  his  mimic  world,  and  so  acts  a  part  toward 
it  like  that  of  the  divine  governor  of  the  real  world. 
Hence,  in  this  use  of  the  word,  it  means  the  same  as 
when  we  speak  of  the  irony  of  fate.  The  tragic  poet, 
deeply  feeling  the  pathetic  contrasts  that  arise  in  the 
development  of  his  story,  and  knowing  that  the  audi- 
ence will  feel  them  too,  chooses  to  set  them  forth 
most  forcibly  by  showing  the  hero  in  his  glory  just 
before  his  utter  ruin,  or  in  his  apparent  humiliation 
just  before  his  triumph,  and  by  making  the  character 
say  in  his  unconsciousness  what  has  a  different  mean- 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  IOI 

ing  or  a  deeper  meaning  than  he  can  yet  suspect.  I 
have  been  thus  minute  in  speaking  of  the  different 
senses  of  the  word  irony,  because  a  recent  editor  of 
Sophokles,  Professor  Campbell  of  St.  Andrews,  has 
objected  to  the  use  of  the  word  to  describe  a  quality 
of  the  Sophoklean  tragedy,  oh  the  ground  that  the 
offensive  sense  of  superiority,  the  sneer  of  contempt, 
which  belongs  to  the  word  in  its  ordinary  use,  is  out 
of  place  in  the  relation  of  the  poet  to  his  characters. 
That  is  quite  true.  No  such  thing  as  a  comparison 
between  the  poet  and  the  character  on  the  stage,  to 
the  disparagement  of  the  latter,  can  be  imagined. 
But  Professor  Campbell  does  not  sufficiently  recog- 
nize the  other  use  of  the  word,  as  in  the  phrase,  the 
irony  of  fate.  That  phrase  justifies  the  application 
of  the  word  to  the  work  of  the  dramatic  poet,  for  he 
is  in  a  sense  the  Fate  of  his  characters,  the  author  of 
all  that  they  say  and  do.  From  him  proceeds  the 
practical  irony,  the  conflict  in  the  dramatic  situation 
between  the  reality  and  appearance,  and  the  verbal 
irony,  —  that  is,  the  putting  into  the  mouth  of  a  char- 
acter words  that  would  seem  to  a  person  so  situated 
to  be  true,  which  yet  have  a  pathetic  force  of  contrast 
from  the  knowledge  on  the  part  of  the  audience  that, 
as  the  speaker  means  them,  they  are  terribly  far  from 
the  truth.  The  practical  irony  of  this  play  has  been 
admirably  expounded  by  the  late  Bishop  Thirlwall, 
in  his  essay  on  the  Irony  of  Sophokles,  and  I  will  pass 
it  over.  The  examples  of  verbal  irony  are  of  course 
mainly  to  be  found  in  words  put  into  the  mouth  of 


IO2         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

Oedipus.  In  the  very  opening  of  the  play  he 
describes  himself  as  "renowned  in  universal  fame." 
In  declaring  his  purpose  to  obey  the  oracle  with  zeal- 
ous effort  to  detect  and  punish  the  murderer  of  Laios, 
he  says,  having  in  mind  his  theory  that  it  had  been 
prompted  by  hostility  to  the  government,  that  self- 
interest  prompts  him  to  "  put  such  villany  far  off  from 
himself,"  for  a  similar  attack  might  be  made  upon 
him.  In  his  proclamation  calling  for  information,  and 
denouncing  any  one  who  shall  withhold  it,  he  adds 
at  the  end,  "And  if  he  be  any  inmate  of  my  house,  the 
curse  applies  to  him  as  well."  When  lokasta  urges 
him  not  to  try  to  discover  his  parentage,  he  ascribes 
her  entreaties  to  a  fear  that  he  may  turn  out  to  be  of 
a  low  family,  and  says  to  her  (his  real  mother),  "  Not 
even  if  my  mother  was  a  slave,  and  her  family  in  slavery 
for  three  generations  back,  will  you  be  degraded  by 
it."  A  similar  conflict  between  reality  and  appear- 
ance is  seen  in  the  language  of  the  chorus,  especially 
in  that  brief  ode  just  before  the  revelation  of  the 
secret,  when,  like  children  playing  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice,  they  amuse  themselves  with  conjecture  as 
to  what  god  and  nymph  it  may  have  been,  who  in 
some  wanton  hour  begat  him  who  had  come  to  be 
their  king.  These  are  but  a  few  examples  of  an  ele- 
ment which  pervades  the  whole  play. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  main  interest  of  this  play 
lies  in  the  skilful  treatment  of  the  plot,  but  the  re- 
mark should  not  be  understood  as  implying  that  the 
characters  are  in  themselves  feeble  or  uninteresting. 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  IO3 

Oedipus  ranks  high  among  the  figures  of  Greek 
fiction,  and  he  owes  his  position  wholly  to  Sopho- 
kles,  and  largely  to  this  play.  He  is  himself  his 
only  enemy.  Every  other  character  in  the  play  is 
friendly  to  him,  and  strives  to  help  him.  His  very 
strength  becomes  a  cause  of  weakness  and  calamity 
to  him,  under  the  circumstances  in  which  the  gods 
place  him,  because  it  betrays  him  into  self-confi- 
dence, and  blinds  him  for  so  long  a  time  to  the 
truth.  From  the  first  it  is  evident  that  he  is  a 
man  of  strong  will  and  clear  head.  The  people  of 
Thebes,  after  long  experience,  reverence  him  as  their 
ruler.  The  people  of  Korinth,  who  had  not  seen 
him  since  his  youth,  send  for  him  at  once,  on  the 
death  of  Polybos,  to  take  the  throne.  There  is  no 
feebleness  or  indecision,  either  in  his  action  when  he 
is  taunted  with  being  a  foundling,  when  he  hears 
that  threatening  oracle  at  Delphi,  and  when  he  meets 
the  party  of  Laios  on  the  highway,  or  in  his  words 
at  the  beginning  of  this  play.  He  has  already  sent 
Kreon  to  Delphi,  and  as  soon  as  the  response  comes 
back,  after  a  few  pointed  questions  in  regard  to  the 
crime,  just  such  as  a  modern  police  magistrate  might 
ask,  he  has  his  plan  formed,  and  makes  his  procla- 
mation. He  is  full  of  self-reliance  and  energy.  The 
opposition  of  Teiresias  only  fixes  his  purpose  more 
firmly,  and  he  makes  up  his  mind  at  once  to  deal 
with  Kreon  as  the  offense  he  imputes  to  him  de- 
mands, without  thought  of  fear  or  favor.  When  his 
attention  is  again  drawn  to  the  unsolved  question  of 


104  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

his  birth,  he  pushes  the  inquiry  in  that  direction  with 
the  same  energy,  in  spite  of  all  the  entreaties  of 
lokasta.  And  when  he  learns  the  bitter  truth,  his 
vengeance  upon  himself  is  no  less  sudden,  severe, 
and  appropriate.  After  the  blow,  how  clear  is  his 
inward  vision  over  his  past  life,  how  complete  his 
self-subjection !  It  is  thus  evident  that  his  very 
clear-sightedness  for  what  lies  just  before  him,  and 
his  promptness  of  action,  are  what  bring  upon  him, 
so  far  as  his  deeds  affect  his  fate,  his  faults  and  mis- 
fortunes. They  make  him  act  too  quickly  and  con- 
fide too  much  in  his  own  judgments.  Yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  is  conceived  as  a  man  who  made  his 
way  everywhere,  and  attracted  to  himself  the  love 
and  respect  of  those  around  him.  The  language  of 
the  chorus,  as  well  after  as  before  his  fall,  shows  this 
plainly.  We  might  liken  him  to  Achilles,  the  ideal 
warrior  of  the  Iliad, — impetuous,  truth-loving,  self- 
impelled  rather  than  self-controlled,  capable  of  feel- 
ing and  arousing  in  others  intense  affection,  and 
hardly  less  intense  hatred,  keenly  sensitive  to  the 
judgments  of  others  upon  his  conduct,  yet,  under 
the  influence  of  excited  passion,  adopting  a  course 
for  himself  in  defiance  of  all  around  him,  and  per- 
sisting in  it  in  defiance  of  reason,  at  terrible  cost  to 
himself.  Or,  to  take  an  example  more  widely  known, 
from  a  period  of  history  not  very  unlike  the  fabulous 
heroic  age  of  Greece,  he  was  such  a  man  as  David, 
the  partisan  chief,  the  hero  of  outcasts,  the  king  of 
Israel,  the  poet,  the  sinner,  the  penitent. 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX  OF    SOPHOKLES.  10$ 

The  character  of  lokasta,  too,  though  subordinate 
and  less  fully  drawn  out,  is  worthy  of  study.  The  idea 
of  the  poet  embodied  in  it,  to  be  inferred  from  the 
words  he  puts  into  her  mouth,  seems  to  have  been 
often  misunderstood.  Nearly  all  who  have  referred 
especially  to  her,  regard  her  chiefly  as  an  impersona- 
tion of  impious  disbelief  in  the  gods.  Thus  Camp- 
bell calls  her  "the  arch-horror  of  the  piece."  Capell- 
man,  in  his  essay  on  the  Women  of  Sophokles,  finds 
something  admirable  in  all  the  others,  but  has  hardly 
a  word  to  say  in  her  favor.  Schneidewin,  —  a  most 
judicious  critic  generally,  judging  a  poet's  work  with 
a  delicate  and  cultivated  tact,  —  describes  her  as  selfish 
and  heartless,  unconcerned  at  the  death  of  Laios, 
careless  what  became  of  the  child  maimed  by  him 
and  exposed  by  her,  indifferent  to  gods  and  oracles 
alike,  until  she  finds  herself  driven  to  heed  them  by 
terror  and  distress.  Now,  if  Sophokles  had  imag- 
ined her  such  a  person,  would  he  not  have  drawn  the 
picture  so  clearly  and  strongly  that  there  would  have 
been  no  room  for  doubt  or  difficulty  in  receiving  the 
impression  ?  Yet,  if  one  reads  the  scenes  in  which 
she  appears,  and  the  references  to  her,  with  this 
question  in  mind,  — In  what  light  did  the  poet  himself 
look  upon  her  character  ?  —  he  will  hardly  come  to 
such  a  conclusion.  Her  first  appearance  certainly 
impresses  one  in  her  favor.  When  she  comes  out  to 
Oedipus  and  Kreon,  at  the  height  of  their  wrangling, 
both  men  defer  to  her  at  once,  with  great  respect, 
and  state  their  cases  to  her.  She  then,  with  the  aid 


106  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

of  the  chorus,  brings  them  to  a  settlement,  or  at 
least  a  postponement  of  their  quarrel.  This  shows 
that  she  was  not  a  weak  character,  and  creates  a  pre- 
sumption that  she  was  not  a  wicked  one.  As  to  her 
attitude  towards  the  oracles,  it  ought  not  to  be  over- 
looked that  she  repeatedly  distinguishes  between  the 
direct  manifestations  of  the  divine  will,  and  the  pos- 
sibly mistaken  or  falsified  declaration  of  it  through 
human  channels.  Such  a  distinction,  we  may  be 
sure,  was  made  by  many  not  undevout  people  in  the 
poet's  time.  The  Delphic  oracle  itself  was  accused 
of  having  Medized  in  the  terrible  trial  of  the  Persian 
invasion.  Other  instances  of  suspected  tampering 
with  its  utterances  are  mentioned.  And  so  the 
questioning  of  the  genuineness  or  supposed  appli- 
cation or  suggested  fulfilment  of  an  oracle  was  prob- 
ably no  uncommon  thing.  In  other  plays  of  Sopho- 
kles  the  possible  defeat  of  a  prediction  of  evil  is  part 
of  the  plot.  That  the  chorus  here  is  shocked  at  the 
apparent  impiety  of  such  distrust  does  not  prove 
that  every  one,  even  the  poet  himself,  if  he  had  been 
treating  a  different  myth,  must  feel  so.  Moreover, 
in  this  case,  she  had  seen,  as  she  fairly  argues,  one 
such  instance  in  her  own  experience,  —  Laios,  as 
she  thought,  had  not  been  killed  by  his  own  son,  but 
by  robbers  on  the  highway.  And  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served that  there  is  no  hint  of  her  having  shown  any 
distrust  of  oracles,  until  she  finds  that  her  husband 
is  angry  with  the  prophet  Teiresias  for  charging  him 
with  a  murder  which  he  is  sure  he  did  not  commit. 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  IO/ 

This  leads  us  to  what  seems  to  be  the  central  and 
ruling  quality  of  the  character,  as  here  drawn.  There 
is  in  the  lokasta  of  Sophokles  no  more  prominent 
trait  than  her  love  as  wife  for  her  husband.  We 
may  indeed  guess  —  for  we  are  told  nothing  about  it  — 
that  it  was  love  to  Laios  that  led  her  to  consent  to 
the  exposing  of  the  child,  because  that  seemed  the 
only  way  to  save  the  father  from  death  by  his  son's 
hand.  When,  after  the  death  of  Laios,  she  is  given 
by  the  State  to  its  deliverer  from  the  Sphinx,  she 
comes  under  the  influence  of  his  character,  and  after 
a  time  so  loves  him  as  to  cast  contempt  on  the 
oracle  for  his  sake.  When  she  finds  that  she  cannot 
thus  allay  his  anxiety  about  the  killing  of  Laios,  her 
conscience  distresses  her,  and  she  appeals  for  help  to 
the  very  god  whose  Delphic  oracle  she  had  scorned. 
And  at  the  last,  when  the  secret  of  the  birth  of 
Oedipus  becomes  known  to  her,  while  yet  unrevealed 
to  him,  her  first  thought  is  to  save  him  from  the 
dreadful  discovery.  She  is  willing  to  try  to  keep  it 
to  herself,  to  live  on  with  that  fearful  secret  tortur- 
ing her  soul,  if  only  she  can  secure  for  him  the  bliss 
of  ignorance.  It  is  the  blind  impulse  of  unreason- 
ing love  —  precisely  such  a  one  as  the  same  poet 
represents  in  the  case  of  Ismene,  when  she  urges 
Antigone  to  accept  her  as  a  partner  in  death,  by 
falsely  admitting  that  she  had  been  a  partner  in  the 
burying  of  their  brother  —  it  is,  I  say,  a  blind  im- 
pulse of  unreasoning  love,  for  such  a  secret  could 
not  long  be  kept  by  her  or  hidden  from  him  ;  but 


IO8  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

she  is  carried  away  by  it,  without  stopping  to  think 
what  it  means  and  involves.  When  he  persists,  she 
has  nothing  left  to  her  but  suicide.  Now  I  appeal 
to  you  who  are  familiar  with  the  play,  whether  such 
an  interpretation  of  her  words  and  deeds  is  not  more 
natural  and  true  than  one  which  makes  her  out  a 
cold,  heartless,  skeptical  fiend  ? 

This  play  suggests  a  question  which  is  worth  ask- 
ing, for  the  sake  of  the  view  it  opens  into  the  work  of 
the  poet  in  such  a  case  :  Could  Oedipus  have  avoided 
his  fate  by  any  wisdom  or  effort  of  virtue  ?  Certainly 
he  need  not  have  killed  Laios.  The  story  of  the  col- 
lision on  the  highway,  as  he  tells  it,  does  not  imply 
any  attack  upon  him  by  the  other  party  which  justi- 
fied his  violence  as  an  act  of  self-defense.  If  he  had 
yielded  the  way  to  the  larger  party,  —  he  a  mere  foot- 
passenger,  and  their  wagon,  perhaps,  running  in  the 
deep-worn  grooves  in  the  rock-bed  of  the  road,  such 
as  are  to  be  seen  now  in  parts  of  Greece,  —  there 
would  have  been  no  such  fatal  result.  Again,  he 
might  have  refused  marriage  under  any  and  all  cir- 
cumstances, to  ensure  the  failure  of  the  other  part  of 
the  oracle  given  him  at  Delphi.  It  appears  thus  that 
forewarned  as  he  was  by  that  oracle,  it  lay  within 
his  power,  by  such  careful  self-restraint,  to  pre- 
vent its  fulfilment.  It  was  only  a  mistake  of  judg- 
ment in  supposing  that  he  knew  whom  the  oracle 
meant  as  his  father  and  mother,  that  betrayed  him 
into  realizing  its  prediction.  Had  his  idea  been 
right,  his  precaution  of  not  returning  to  Korinth 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  109 

q» 

would  have  saved  him.  And  so  it  is  simply  a  con- 
firmation of  the  conception  of  his  character  already 
suggested ;  for  his  ruin  came  from  over-confidence 
in  this  opinion  of  his  own.  In  many  ancient  stories 
it  is  such  a  problem  on  which  all  the  interest  hangs  : 
Will  a  man,  forewarned  of  an  impending  calamity, 
be  able  by  foresight,  caution,  wit,  or  daring,  to  defeat 
the  purpose  of  the  gods  and  avert  or  evade '  the 
calamity  ?  And  always,  in  the  story,  there  is  some 
point  where  his  knowledge,  or  self-control,  or  watch- 
fulness fails,  and  the  will  of  the  gods  is  done.  We 
must  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  just  such  a  story  that 
Sophokles  has  here  dramatized,  and  that  he  must 
take  the  main  incidents  as  he  finds  them,  without 
material  change.  It  would,  in  fact,  destroy  the  story 
to  give  it  a  different  issue.  The  original  myth  may 
have  had  a  very  different  meaning.  Indeed,  there  is 
not  a  little  probability  in  the  theory  that  the  germ  of 
it  is  one  statement  that  the  day  destroys  the  night 
from  which  it  sprang  ;  and  another,  that  the  sun,  after 
much  wandering,  returns  at  evening  to  the  beautiful 
twilight,  from  which  at  morning  he  came  forth. 
When  the  meaning  of  the  terms  for  the  daylight 
and  the  sun  was  lost  from  memory,  so  that  they 
became  proper  names  to  the  ear,  as  Zeus  and  Se- 
lene and  Aurora  and  many  others  did,  as  Grace  and 
George  and  Augustus  and  all  the  others  have  done 
more  recently,  the  old  statements  became  narratives 
of  supposed  human  action  instead  of  descriptions  of 
natural  phenomena,  and  so  a  story  grew  out  of  them. 


IIO  STUDIES    IX    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

All  the  rest,  the  oracles,  the  collision  in  the  high- 
way, the  guessing  of  the  Sphinx's  riddle,  the  children, 
the  suicide,  and  the  self-mutilation,  were  engrafted 
upon  the  original  stock  to  supply  motives,  or  natural 
consequences,  for  the  human  action.  But,  however 
that  may  be,  the  fact  remains  that  Sophokles  took 
the  story  as  he  found  it,  for  the  basis  of  his  dramatic 
treatment ;  and  the  question  as  to  his  work,  the  test 
of  his  skill,  is  this  :  Is  the  story,  in  his  version  of  it, 
in  all  respects  "such  a  story  as  might  be  believed  to 
occur  in  the  heroic  age  of  Greece  ?  It  is  not  possi- 
ble to  prove  an  affirmative  or  negative  answer  by 
comparison  of  actual  events,  for  we  have  no  record 
of  facts  from  that  time.  The  only  special  material 
available  for  an  opinion  is  the  picture  presented 
in  the  Homeric  poems  and  in  the  other  tragedies, 
which  aim  to  represent  in  the  main  the  same  social 
state.  If  we  judge  this  play  in  the  light  of  these 
works,  and  on  such  general  principles  of  human 
nature  as  are  true  in  all  ages,  we  find  it  a  natural, 
self-consistent  story.  Given  a  man  born  under  such 
a  fate,  led  by  an  unseen  control  through  such  an 
early  life,  and  the  rest  of  the  life,  as  here  developed, 
presents  nothing  unnatural,  nothing  out  of  the  range 
of  human  experience.  It  is  a  marvelous  story,  and 
the  supernatural  element  in  it  is  essential  to  the 
structure ;  but  such  an  element  is  recognized  in  the 
belief  of  all  ages,  and  here  it  nowhere  interferes  with 
the  action  of  ordinary  human  motives  and  emotions. 
It  simply  avails  itself  of  these  springs  of  human 


THE  OEDIPUS  REX  OF  SOPHOCLES.       I  I  I 

action,  and  brings  the  persons  into  such  relations  to 
one  another  that  their  natural  conduct  in  these 
circumstances  produces  these  momentous  results. 
Oedipus  may  act  in  this  or  that  particular  as  one  or 
another  of  us  would  not  act,  but  all  we  can  ask  of 
the  poet  is  that  Oedipus  should  not  ever  act  other- 
wise than  as  the  conception  of  his  character  would  re- 
quire ;  in  other  words,  that  he  should  be  consistent  with 
himself.  The  mysterious  Sphinx  (who  also  is  perhaps 
a  personification  of  a  natural  phenomenon)  and  the 
plague  with  which  the  play  opens  are,  besides  the 
oracles,  the  only  elements  which  connect  the  story 
with  fairy-land  or  the  supernatural  world.  The 
special  development  which  our  poet  gives  to  the 
bare  outline  of  the  myth,  the  incidents  which  were 
necessarily  introduced  to  fill  up  a  story  of  human 
action  on  the  basis  of  the  phrases  describing  phenom- 
ena of  external  nature,  will  be  found  to  lie  entirely 
within  ordinary  human  life  in  the  social  state  here 
depicted. 

In  what  has  been  already  said  of  the  dramatic  skill 
displayed  in  the  plot  of  this  play,  it  may  seem  that 
too  much  has  been  claimed  for  the  Greek  poet.  It 
might  easily  be  that  a  reader  familiar  with  Shak- 
speare,  or  with  almost  any  dramatic  poet  of  the  modern 
era,  would  think  in  going  through  this  play  that 
nothing  was  done  in  it,  that  there  was  no  action,  but 
rather,  an  excessive  amount  of  talk.  This  difference 
we  need  not  try  to  deny  or  to  apologize  for ;  but  it 
may  be  in  part  explained  by  considering  certain  re- 


112         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

strictions  under  which  the  ancient  poet  did  his  work. 
One  was  in  regard  to  the  number  of  actors.  In  Greek 
tragedy  (not  in  comedy)  the  highest  number  allowed 
by  rules  of  usage  was  four,  and  most  of  the  plays 
preserved  to  us  could  be  acted  by  two  or  three  persons. 
Another  was  the  restriction  of  unity  of  time  and 
place,  —  that  the  whole  action  should  be  confined  to  a 
single  day  and  to  one  locality.  These  unities  were 
not,  it  is  true,  strictly  regarded  by  the  Greek  poets, 
for  the  first  is  violated  in  the  Agamemnon  of  Aes- 
chylus, and  both  in  the  Eumenides.  Yet  there  was 
some  force  in  them,  and  Sophokles  has  observed 
them  in  all  of  his  plays  that  are  preserved  to  us. 
Once  more,  there  is  the  rule  stated  thus  by  Horace  in 
the  Ars  Poetica :  — 

Ne  pueros  cor  am  populo  Medea  trucidet, 
Aut  humana  palatn  coquat  exta  nefarius  Atreus, 
Aut  in  avem  Procne  vertatur,  Cadmus  in  angitem  ; 
Quodcumque  ostendis  mihi  sic,  incredulus  odi. 

This  explains  the  comparative  absence  from  the 
stage  of  conflicts,  suicides,  transformations,  etc.,  and 
the  introduction  of  long  narratives  of  messengers 
which  constitute  in  part  the  epic  element  of  Greek 
tragedy.  These,  and  other  restrictions,  are  little 
matters  in  themselves,  but  they  would  greatly  ham- 
per a  modern  playwright.  They  all  belong  indeed  to 
a  higher  cause,  arising  from  the  essentially  different 
conceptions  of  ancient  and  modern  tragedy.  The 
Greek  tragedy  was  in  origin,  and  in  theory  always,  a 
chorus  interrupted  by  dialogue.  The  chorus  was  at 


THE    OEDIPUS  REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  113 

first  the  whole  performance,  and  the  dialogue  pas- 
sages, called  epeisodia  from  the  entrance  of  the  actors 
to  take  part  in  them,  were  truly  episodes  in  the  sense 
which  the  word  has  to  our  minds.  Hence  it  was 
only  by  one  at  a  time,  in  the  course  of  years,  that  the 
number  of  allowed  actors  was  raised  to  three  or  four. 
This  explains  the  comparative  absence  of  scenery 
and  action  from  the  stage.  And  hence,  too,  perhaps, 
from  the  relative  subordination  of  the  actor's  part 
in  the  play  came  its  limitation  to  the  single  place 
and  time.  The  whole  tragedy  was  a  poem  in  illus- 
tration and  explanation  of  a  series  of  tableaux  vivants. 
It  may  fairly  be  said  in  view  of  these  restrictions,  and 
of  this  theory  of  tragedy,  that  Sophokles  has  in  this 
play  shown  wonderful  power  in  developing  a  com- 
plete and  absorbing  plot.  In  comparison  with  other 
plays  it  seems  as  if  he  here  strained  the  Greek  con- 
ception of  tragedy  to  its  utmost  limits  in  a  direction 
approaching  the  modern  conception.  And  yet  how 
differently  a  modern  writer  would  treat  the  theme  ! 
He  would  have  three  or  four  times  as  many  charac- 
ters. He  would  have  a  second  or  third  subordinate 
plot ;  and  it  would  go  hard  with  him  if  he  could  not 
work  in  a  love-story  with  reasonable  obstacles  to  its 
running  smoothly.  He  would  omit  the  heaven- 
inflicted  plague,  and  transform  the  blind  old  prophet 
into  a  prime  minister  or  a  ghost.  He  would  bring 
about  the  discovery  of  the  fatal  secret  by  some  chain 
of  half-accidental  occurrences,  like  the  dropping  of 
Desdemona's  handkerchief,  such  as  might  occur  in 


I  14  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

every-day  life.  He  would  change  the  scene  a  dozen 
times,  and  lengthen  the  time  of  the  action  indefinitely. 
In  saying  this,  of  course  one  does  not  mean  that  the 
modern  dramatic  form  is  necessarily  inferior  on  ac- 
count of  these  differences.  It  is  merely  that  we  have 
here  two  distinct  conceptions  of  this  form  of  art, 
the  ancient  and  the  modern,  or,  if  you  please,  the 
statuesque  and  picturesque,  though  this  latter  word 
has  been  in  bad  company  and  lost  some  of  its  native 
simplicity.  Each  form  is  the  best  in  its  own  age  and 
surroundings.  Each  in  comparison  with  the  other 
appears  to  have  weak  points,  but  has,  not  less  truly, 
strong  points  peculiar  to  itself.  The  remarkable 
thing  in  this  play  is,  that  the  poet  without  being 
false  to  the  classical  conception,  has  been  able  to  in- 
troduce so  much  of  what  characterizes  more  especially 
the  modern  form  of  dramatic  art,  —  an  interest  in  the 
mere  series  of  incidents,  and  a  probable  secret  natur- 
ally brought  to  light. 

It  may  be  worth  while  here  to  point  out  certain 
improbabilities  which  appear  to  a  modern  judgment 
in  the  story,  as  presented  in  this  play.  One  is,  that 
it  should  be  so  long  before  the  plague,  or  whatever 
declared  the  divine  displeasure  on  account  of  the 
killing  of  Laios,  came  upon  Thebes.  Oedipus  must 
have  been  in  undisturbed  possession  of  the  throne 
for  years,  since  he  has  four  children  born  to  him  by 
lokasta,  the  age  of  whom  at  the  time  of  the  action 
vis  not,  to  be  sure,  expressly  stated ;  but  from  the  last 
scene  in  which  the  two  girls  are  brought  upon  the 


THE  OEDIPUS  REX  OF  SOPHOKLES.       I  1 5 

stage,  one  gets  the  impression  that  they  were  at 
least  no  longer  infants.  And  there  are  expressions 
here  and  there  in  the  play  (vs.  109,  561,  1212)  which 
contribute  to  suggest  a  long  interval  since  the  com- 
ing of  Oedipus  to  Thebes.  The  murder  of  Aga- 
memnon, it  is  true,  remained  unavenged  for  seven 
years,  but  that  interval  was  necessary  to  the  story, 
in  order  that  Orestes,  who  was  but  a  child  when  his 
father  went  to  the  ten-years'  siege  of  Troy,  might 
grow  to  sufficient  age  to  be  able  to  avenge  him. 
Here  there  appears  no  need  in  the  story  for  a  longer 
time  than  that  these  children  should  be  begotten, 
and  it  is  worth  notice  that,  in  the  brief  Homeric 
version  of  the  myth,  no  such  interval  before  the  dis- 
covery appears.  Another  strange  thing  is,  that  the 
death  of  Laios,  known  to  be  a  murder  on  the  high- 
way, should  have  been  ,  passed  over  with  so  little 
notice.  The  poet  himself  felt  this  difficulty,  and 
suggests,  as  an  explanation  of  it,  that  the  distress 
occasioned  by  the  Sphinx  had  interrupted  a  search  for 
the  murderer,  which  was  not  afterwards  resumed. 
Of  course,  in  an  unsettled  state  of  civilization,  and 
among  a  group  of  small,  independent  states,  such 
acts  of  violence  were  more  likely  to  occur  and  to 
defy  punishment,  and  generally,  in  the  primitive 
societies,  homicide  was  a  less  serious  offense,  as  ap- 
pears from  recognized  tariffs  of  payment  in  money 
for  it  to  the  outraged  family.  But  still  it  remains  a 
strange  thing  that  the  king  should  be  so  taken  off 
with  no  more  serious  and  prolonged  investigation  of 


Il6  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

the  matter.  This,  it  may  be  observed,  is  an  insepa- 
rable part  of  the  original  story,  and  does  not  belong 
only  to  the  dramatic  working  up  of  it.  Again,  one 
cannot  help  asking  how  it  happened  that  the  same 
man  should  have  been  a  shepherd  on  Mt.  Kithaeron 
at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  Oedipus,  then  an  atten- 
dant of  Laios  on  his  fatal  journey  towards  Delphi, 
and  afterwards  a  shepherd  again.  This  last  change  is 
expressly  accounted  for  by  the  poet,  as  caused  by  the 
man's  desire  to  get  away  from  the  sight  of  his  master's 
murderer  on  his  master's  throne.  It  has  been  suggested 
above  that  the  poet's  own  reason  for  thus  removing 
this  man  from  Thebes  was  to  exclude  the  possibility 
of  his  revealing,  during  the  reign  of  Oedipus,  his 
knowledge  that  he  was  the  murderer  of  the  former 
king ;  and  besides,  the  delay  in  the  plot  occasioned 
by  the  necessity  of  sending  to  some  distance  for 
him  contributes  to  the  suspense  and  interest  of  the 
spectator.  But  there  is  no  hint  of  an  explanation 
how  it  came  about  that  the  same  man  was  a  witness 
of.  the  exposure  of  the  child  and  of  the  killing  of 
the  father.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  necessary  it  was  to 
the  plot,  as  Sophokles  conceived  it,  to  have  the  same 
man  cognizant  of  both  events,  though  ignorant  that 
the  infant  and  the  homicide  were  the  same  person. 
The  whole  identification  depends  upon  his  testi- 
mony. 

Finally,  can  we  say,  after  all  this,  what  was  the 
poet's  motive  or  aim  in  this  play?  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  he  had  some  conception  in  his  mind,  some 


THE    OEDIPUS   REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  1 1/ 

definite  motive,  which  controlled  the  shaping  of  this 
creation.  Without  such  conception,  the  work  would 
have  little  meaning  or  value.  How  distinctly  it  was 
present  to  his  mind  and  formulated  in  expression,  we 
cannot  guess,  but  we  may  be  sure  that  such  an  artist 
as  Sophokles  did  no  work  at  random.  In  the  selec- 
tion of  a  myth  for  dramatic  use,  and  of  the  precise 
version  and  part  of  the  myth,  we  may  suppose  that 
he  would  be  guided  almost  entirely  by  his  percep- 
tion of  dramatic  possibilities ;  at  that  earlier  stage  of 
the  process,  the  creative  faculty  of  the  poet  is  not 
yet  at  work,  or  is  at  work  only  tentatively  and 
fitfully ;  his  mind  is  rather  passive,  receiving  propo- 
sitions, as  it  were,  considering  and  comparing,  but 
not  yet  acting  upon  any.  In  this  stage,  the  artistic 
element  predominates  over  the  true  poetic  (making) 
element,  and  the  mind,  with  comparative  coolness, 
selects  for  artistic  reasons  without  determining  the 
moral  and  drift  of  its  future  work.  But  when  the 
work  of  composition  begins,  and  the  fire  burns 
within,  then  the  whole  man  gives  shape  to  the  prod- 
uct ;  his  long-cherished  thoughts,  his  beliefs  about 
the  highest  and  the  deepest  questions,  his  principles 
of  action,  his  noblest  theories,  —  for  into  such  work 
the  true  poet  will  put  the  best  of  everything,  —  all 
these  will  be  poured  into  the  crucible,  and  will  give 
something  of  form  or  color  to  the  final  result.  And 
it  is  not  presumption  for  any  one  to  attempt  to  dis- 
cover from  the  finished  work  what  is  the  ruling  idea, 
the  main  thought,  in  it.  The  poet  speaks  to  his 


Il8  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

hearers  and  readers.  He  is  not  a  juggler,  aiming  to 
distract  our  attention  with  by-play,  and  to  hide  his 
real  design,  but  a  teacher,  whose  object  is  to  convey, 
in  such  form  as  shall  suit  him  best,  his  mind's 
thought  to  other  minds.  We  may  fail  from  our  own 
weakness  to  read  his  thought  rightly,  but  our  honest 
effort  to  discover  it  is  the  proper  tribute  to  his  effort 
to  convey  it.  And  if  we  fail,  our  failure  may  lead 
another  to  the  truth. 

The  story  of  Thebes  seems  to  have  been  particu- 
larly attractive  to  the  mind  of  Sophokles.  It  is  com- 
monly supposed,  on  various  grounds,  that  he  wrote 
first  the  Antigone,  taking  up  that  part  of  the  myth 
which  comes  last  in  the  order  of  events,  perhaps  from 
the  desire  to  depict,  as  in  the  parallel  case  of  the 
Elektra,  a  heroic  woman  in  a  moment  of  extreme 
trial.  Next  probably  in  order  of  writing  came  the 
present  play.  We  are  not  wrong,  I  think,  in  suppos- 
ing that  this  play  interested  him  so  deeply  in  the 
character  and  fate  of  Oedipus  that  it  did  not  wholly 
satisfy  him,  that  his  mind  recurred  to  it  and  dwelt 
upon  it  until  he  felt  an  impulse  to  treat  it  once  more  ; 
and  then,  in  his  old  age,  as  tradition  tells  us,  he  wrote 
the  Oedipus  at  Kolonos.  Now  if  this  semi-traditional 
order  of  the  three  plays  is  correct,  it  seems  to  lead  us 
towards  the  answer  to  our  question,  What  was  his 
main  idea  in  this  play  ?  He  was  not  drawn  to  the 
myth  at  first  by  the  desire  to  tell  the  story  of  Oedi- 
pus in  dramatic  form.  It  was  not  the  intricacy  of 
the  plot,  the  exercise  of  dramatic  skill  in  the  natural 


THE    OEDIPUS   REX   OF    SOPHOKLES.  I  IQ 

unforced  bringing  to  light  of  a  secret  that  first  at- 
tracted him  to  the  Theban  myth,  but  the  strong  and 
pure  character  of  Antigone.  The  power  of  her  char- 
acter over  his  mind  led  him  then  to  go  back  and  take 
up  the  dark  story  over  which  her  self-sacrifice  sheds 
its  gracious  light.  Perhaps  in  later  years,  and  in  ful- 
ler mastery  of  the  resources  of  his  art,  he  really  had 
more  pleasure  in  the  construction  of  such  a  plot  as 
this  ;  but  that  alone  does  not  seem  to  explain  the 
vigor  and  passion  of  the  play.  If  he  was  led  to  select 
the  theme  by  the  plot  alone,  he  was  soon  carried  be- 
yond the  source  of  interest  by  the  deeper  questions  it 
aroused  in  him.  Let  us  turn  now  towards  the  other 
Oedipus-play.  What  was  it  that  he  was  dissatisfied 
with  in  the  Oedipus  Rex?  What  were  the  deeper 
questions  started  there,  and  not  fully  or  not  rightly 
answered,  to  which  the  Oedipus  at  Kolonos  was  meant 
to  give  the. best  answer  the  poet  could  find?  Here 
is  a  noble  character,  —  strong,  sagacious,  religious,  — 
forced  to  pass  through  the  deepest  misery  and  dis- 
grace. How  did  it  come  about  ?  And  beyond  that, 
how  can  we  believe  in  a  divine  government  of  the 
world  if  such  things  come  to  pass  under  it  ?  To 
answer  these  two  questions  was  the  poet's  object, 
the  same  which  Milton  proposed  to  himself  in  the 
beginning  of  Paradise  Lost,  to 

"  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men." 

The   Oedipus  Rex  has   for   its    object  to  "assert 
eternal  Providence."     As  clearly  as  the  poet  can,  he 


120         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

shows  in  it  how  certainly  the  gods  govern  in  the  life 
of  this  world,  how  not  even  the  strongest  and  wisest 
and  best  of  men  can  put  his  own  life  outside  of  the 
chain  of  cause  and  effect,  and  nullify  the  decrees 
made  known  to  men  in  divine  oracles.  Far-seeing 
and  firm  and  devout  as  Oedipus  is,  in  an  unguarded 
moment  he  does  commit  the  very  sin  that  is  needed 
to  bring  him  into  the  fatal  sequence,  —  and  all  the 
rest  follows  without  any  violent  intervention,  by  the 
working  of  ordinary  laws.  But  the  poet  could  not 
bear  to  leave  the  matter  finally  here.  With  all  his  care 
to  show  Oedipus  to  be  in  the  wrong,  the  impression 
of  undeserved  suffering  remains.  He  must  go  on,  as 
Milton  must,  and  "justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men" ; 
and  this  he  does  in  the  Oedipiis  at  Kolonos,  in  a  way 
which  makes  us  wonder  at  the  depth  and  tenderness 
and  truth  of  Greek  theology  in  his  hands.  In  a  word, 
then,  we  may  truly  say  that  the  main  idea  of  the 
Oedipus  at  Kolonos  is  to  show,  by  an  extreme  and 
striking  example,  how,  —  again  in  spite  of  all  appear- 
ances to  the  contrary,  —  the  same  divine  will  and  law 
is  able,  as  soon  as  man  submits  to  it,  to  lead  him 
even  through  bitter  suffering  into  joy  and  peace. 


V. 


SUMMARY   OF' THE    OEDIPUS  AT 
KOLONOS   OF    SOPHOKLES. 

'THE  scene  of  the  play  is  laid  at  Kolonos,  one  of 
the  rural  demes  of  Attika,  about  four  miles  north 
or  north-west  from  the  Acropolis.  When  the  stage 
is  disclosed  to  view,  we  see  two  persons  walking  on 
the  public  road, — an  old  man,  blind,  and  in  beggar's 
rags,  and  a  young  woman  guiding  and  half-support- 
ing his  steps.  In  the  first  few  words  of  their  con- 
versation they  announce  themselves  to  be  Oedipus 
and  Antigone.  They  have  been  long  journeying 
thus,  in  search  of  the  place  of  his  final  rest  and 
release  from  the  burden  of  life.  They  do  not  know 
just  where  they  are,  though  Antigone  sees,  in  the 
distance,  the  walls  of  a  city  which  she  knows, 
from  directions  given  them  along  their  way,  to  be 
Athens.  The  old  man  sits  down  at  the  roadside, 
on  the  low  wall  of  an  enclosed  grove,  while  she  pro- 
poses to  go  and  find  out  where  they  are.  But  before 
she  can  do  this  it  is  made  unnecessary  by  the  ap- 
proach of  a  man,  a  wayfarer  like  themselves,  —  not 
a  native,  apparently,  nor  resident  of  Kolonos, — to 
whom  they  apply  for  the  information  they  want. 
He  is  horrified  at  seeing  Oedipus  on  consecrated 
ground  where  it  is  forbidden  to  go,  —  the  sacred  pre- 


122         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

cinct  of  the  Eumenides.  Yet  he  does  not  venture 
to  compel  him  to  move,  and  while  thus  in  doubt 
describes  to  him  the  region  to  which  he  has  come. 
The  whole  region,  the  stranger  says,  is  holy  ground. 
It  belongs,  in  general,  to  Poseidon,  but  Prometheus, 
the  giver  of  fire,  has  in  it  a  place  sacred  to  him  ;  the 
grove  is  a  sanctuary  of  the  Eumenides,  called  the 
corner-stone  of  Athens,  and  the  surrounding  land  is 
under  the  protection  of  its  eponymous  hero,  the 
equestrian  Kolonos.  Politically,  the  whole  territory 
is  under  the  government  of  Theseus,  king  of  Athens. 
Having  said  thus  much,  the  stranger  advises  Oedi- 
pus to  remain  where  he  is,  while  he  goes  to  inform 
the  men  of  the  deme  of  his  presence  there,  that  they 
may  decide  what  he  shall  do. 

This  passage  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  the  character 
of  an  Attic  deme.  It  is  a  distinct  community,  gath- 
ered in  one  locality,  like  a  village  in  a  New  England 
town.  It  has  its  own  gods  and  sanctuaries,  gods 
who  may  also  be  worshipped  elsewhere,  or  may  be 
peculiar  to  that  spot.  Several  deities  of  different 
characters  may  divide  among  them  the  reverence 
and  worship  of  the  little  community,  each  having  his 
own  enclosure  and  temple.  It  has  a  measure  of  self- 
government,  as  to  its  own  affairs,  so  that  it  might 
expel  Oedipus  from  its  limits ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  belongs  to  a  larger  body,  and  recognizes  the 
authority  of  Athens  over  all  Attic  territory. 

After  the  stranger  is  gone,  Oedipus  utters  a  prayer 
to  the  dread  Eumenides,  imploring  them  to  fulfil  the 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS  OF    SOPHOKLES.     123 

oracle  of  Apollo,  which  had  promised  him  that  he 
should  find  rest  at  the  sanctuary  of  some  dread  dei- 
ties, though  where  it  did  not  tell.  Now,  since,  with- 
out intention  or  knowledge,  he  had  stopped  first  at 
their  threshold,  on  coming  into  Attica,  —  he,  a  sober 
man,  at  the  door  of  deities  who  abhorred  all  use  of 
wine,  —  it  seemed  as  if  he  must  have  been  guided 
thither  in  the  divine  plan,  and  this  must  be  the  place 
meant  by  the  oracle.  So  he  fearlessly  throws  him- 
self on  their  pity.  At  the  close  of  his  prayer,  Antig- 
one warns  him  of  the  approach  of  some  elderly 
men  ;  whereupon  he  withdraws  into  the  wood,  that 
he  may  learn  in  what  temper  they  come  before  he 
shows  himself. 

The  chorus  announced  by  Antigone  comes  for- 
ward in  great  excitement,  eager  to  find  the  wan- 
derer who  has  profaned  the  sacred  enclosure.  While 
they  are  urging  each  other  to  look  everywhere  about 
the  grove  for  him,  Oedipus  calls  out  and  discovers 
himself.  Something  in  their  words  may  have  encour- 
aged him  to  this,  but  rather,  perhaps,  he  sees  that 
he  cannot  long  evade  their  search,  and  thinks  it 
wiser  to  give  himself  up.  They  are  filled  with  awe 
and  pity  at  the  sight  of  him,  but,  nevertheless,  they 
insist  upon  his  coming  out  at  once  from  the  sacred 
grove  before  they  will  talk  with  him.  Then  follows 
a  passage  in  which  the  poet  strikingly  depicts  the 
'icsitation,  timidity,  and  physical  weakness  of  the 
old  man.  "  Daughter,  what  shall  I  decide  to  do  ? " 
"  Father,  we  must  do  as  the  citizens  here  do." 


124  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

"Give  me  then  your  hand."  "Here  it  is."  "Friends, 
let  me  not  be  wronged  if  I  trust  you,  and  leave  the 
protection  of  this  sanctuary."  "  No  one  shall  force 
you  away  from  this  place."  "  Further  still  must  I 
go  ? "  "  Come  on."  "  Further  yet  ?  "  "  Lead  him 
forward,  maiden,  for  you  can  see."  And  so  it  goes 
on,  while  he  groans  over  the  trouble  he  has  in  get- 
ting to  the  spot  they  indicate.  The  hesitation  and 
helplessness  of  Oedipus  here,  in  this  trifling  matter 
of  walking  a  few  steps,  is  in  strong  contrast  with 
the  courage  and  resolution  he  shows  later  in  the 
play,  when  upon  his  decision  rests  the  fate  of  two 
of  the  chief  states  of  Greece.  Here  it  is  bodily 
action  that  is  required  of  him  ;  there  it  is  an  act  of  the 
mind,  a  decision  to  be  made  and  maintained.  Here 
he  is  still  uncertain  of  his  position,  whether  he  will 
be  suffered  to  remain  in  Attika,  or  must  wander 
further;  there  he  had  learnt  from  the  king  that  he 
may  stay. 

When  he  has  reached  the  spot  designated  for  him 
by  the  chorus,  they  proceed  to  ascertain  by  urgent 
questions  who  he  is.  He  resists  as  long  as  he  can, 
but  at  last,  by  the  advice  of  Antigone,  tells  them  his 
name.  Knowing  something  of  his  terrible  story,  they 
are  horrified  at  learning  that  it  is  Oedipus  who  is 
before  them,  and  instantly  bid  him  quit  their  terri- 
tory. He  reminds  them  of  their  pledge,  but  in  vain. 
They  insist  that  he  deceived  them  (by  not  telling  his 
name,  apparently),  and  therefore  they  are  not  bound 
by  their  promise  to  him.  Thereupon  Antigone  appeals 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS  OF    SOPHOKLES.      12$ 

to  them  to  have  pity  upon  her,  as  they  might  upon 
one  of  their  own  daughters,  and  not  to  drive  her  and 
her  father  away.  They  remain  unmoved  ;  the  fear, 
so  general  among  primitive  peoples  and  in  ethnical 
religions,  lest  the  whole  community  may  suffer  from 
the  sin  of  one  of  its  members,  or  for  harboring  an 
offender  against  the  gods,  ,is  too  strong  to  give  way 
readily.  Then  Oedipus  himself  addresses  them, 
taking  a  higher  tone  than  before,  and  not  only  ask- 
ing as  a  favor,  but  claiming  almost  as  a  right,  shelter 
in  Attika  :  What  will  become  of  the  reputation  of 
Athens  as  a  most  religious  city  if  she  casts  off  this 
suppliant,  a  man  more  sinned  against  than  sinning, 
whose  evil  deeds  as  men  regard  them  were  wrought 
in  ignorance,  who  comes  now  to  Athens  as  a  man 
consecrated  and  bringing  a  blessing  with  him?  What 
he  means  by  this  blessing  he  will  explain  when  the 
ruler  of  the  land  appears.  The  chorus  is  awed  by 
his  words,  and  consents  to  his  remaining  until  the 
king  comes,  adding  that  the  same  man  who  sum- 
moned them,  the  stranger  who  first  came  upon  Oedi- 
pus, had  gone  on  to  carry  the  news  to  Theseus,  and 
they  feel  sure  that  he  will  soon  be  there. 

Their  conversation  is  interrupted  by  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  from  Antigone.  In  answer  to  an 
anxious  question  from  her  father,  she  tells  him  that  she 
sees  approaching  a  woman  mounted  on  an  Aitnaian 
steed,  with  a  Thessalian  hat  to  protect  her  head  from 
the  sun.  (Those  who  have  seen  the  Tanagra  figu- 
rines will  recall  the  shade-hats  which  appear  on  some 


126  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

of  them.)  Can  it  be  ?  Yes,  as  she  comes  nearer,  she 
sees  her  smile,  and  recognizes  beyond  a  doubt  her 
sister  Ismene.  'The  description  of  the  comforts  with 
which  Ismene  travels  is  evidently  designed  to  mark 
by  contrast  the  hardships  which  Antigone  cheerfully 
undergoes,  to  which  her  father  presently  alludes.' 
After  they  have  exchanged  affectionate  greetings, 
Ismene  says  she  has  come  with  news  for  her  father. 
"  But  where  are  my  sons  ? "  he  naturally  asks.  "They 
are  where  they  are,  and  there  is  trouble  between 
them."  This  gives  occasion  to  Oedipus  to  denounce 
the  conduct  of  his  sons  in  staying  at  home  regardless 
of  his  fate,  and  to  contrast  it  with  the  love  of  his  daugh- 
ters, one  of  whom  has  borne  all  the  hardships  of  his 
wandering  and  want  with  him,  and  the  other  has 
come  now  this  second  time  to  bring  him  informa- 
tion. What,  then,  is  her  news  this  time  ?  It  is  that 
the  two  brothers  have  quarrelled  about  the  throne  of 
Thebes ;  that  Polyneikes,  the  elder,  has  been  driven 
into  exile,  and  that,  according  to  the  prevalent  rumor, 
he  has  found  friends  in  Argos,  and  will  presently 
come  with  an  army  to  regain  his  rights.  Then,  in 
answer  to  questions  from  Oedipus,  it  comes  out  by  de- 
grees that  the  oracle  at  Delphi  has  lately  made  known 
to  the  people  of  Thebes  that  the  possession  or  con- 
trol of  Oedipus's  grave  was  essential  to  the  welfare 
of  Thebes,  although,  as  a  parricide,  he  could  not  be 
buried  in  Theban  soil.  It  appears  from  what  he  has 
previously  said,  that  substantially  the  same  thing  had 
before  been  told  by  the  oracle  to  Oedipus  himself, 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS  OF    SOPHOKLES.      I2/ 

only  in  the  somewhat  different  form  that  his  grave 
should  be  a  blessing  to  whatever  land  should  contain 
it.  In  consequence  of  this  oracle,  she  further  tells 
him,  Kreon  is  coming  soon  to  get  possession  of  his 
person,  in  order  that  they  may  keep  him  close  to 
the  borders  of  Theban  territory  so  long  as  he  lives, 
and  bury  him  there  when  he  dies.  He  asks  whether 
his  sons  knew  of  this  oracle,  and  when  told  that  they 
did,  and  yet  set  the  possession  of  the  throne  before 
any  care  for  him,  breaks  out  into  curses  upon  them, 
enumerating  their  misdeeds  towards  him,  and  praying 
that  their  strife  with  each  other  may  never  end. 

The  more  the  chorus  sees  of  Oedipus,  the  more 
favorably  inclined  towards  him  they  become,  and  now, 
as  if  regarding  his  remaining  in  Attika  as  a  settled 
thing,  they  call  his  attention  to  the  ceremony  of  puri- 
fication necessary  to  propitiate  the  Eumenides,  upon 
whose  sacred  soil  he  has  unwittingly  intruded.  They 
describe  with  minute  detail  the  process,  of  which  he 
is  evidently  entirely  ignorant.  The  suppliant  must 
take  fresh  water  from  a  flowing  source  in  vessels 
wreathed  with  wool  from  a  young  sheep,  and  stand- 
ing with  his  face  to  the  East,  pour  three  libations  of 
water  and  honey,  without  wine  ;  then  he  must  take 
thrice  nine  twigs  of  the  olive  in  his  hands,  and 
utter  the  formula  of  prayer,  including  a  reference  to 
the  name  Eumenides  (this  in  a  low  tone),  and  then 
withdraw  without  looking  behind  him.  This  minute 
account  of  the  ceremony,  more  minute  than  we  find 
elsewhere,  illustrates  the  difference  of  religious  usage 


128  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

in  different  communities,  to  which  reference  has 
already  been  made.  Oedipus,  brought  up  at  Korinth, 
and  having  lived  afterwards  at  Thebes,  both  within  a 
day's  journey  of  Athens,  has  no  knowledge  of  this 
ceremony,  though  the  deities  to  be  propitiated  seem 
from  his  earlier  words  (vs.  99-106)  to  have  been  knowd 
by  him.  For  there,  having  been  told  only  their 
name,  he  speaks  of  them  as  averse  to  wine,  and  calls 
them  daughters  of  Skotos.  The  preciseness  of  the 
directions  given,  and  the  eager  attention  which  he 
pays  to  each  detail,  illustrate  the  importance  of  such 
formalities  in  a  religion  like  that  of  the  Greeks.  The 
use  of  any  other  material  than  lamb's  wool  for  the  fil- 
lets, or  of  water  from  a  still  pool,  or  of  twenty-four 
twigs  instead  of  twenty-seven,  might  vitiate  the  whole 
process.  Oedipus  himself  cannot  go  to  perform  this 
rite,  nor  is  he  willing  to  be  left  alone  in  his  blindness  ; 
so  he  says  one  of  his  daughters  must  go  in  his  stead, 
and  Ismene  volunteers  to  do  it.  We  see  then  here 
one  of  the  reasons  why  she  was  introduced  into  the 
action  of  the  play.  But  why  the  poet  introduced  here 
this  mention  of  the  purification,  and  so  made  it  neces- 
sary to  have  some  one  go  to  perform  it,  we  cannot 
perhaps  be  so  sure,  though  we  may  conjecture. 

After  Ismene  is  gone,  the  chorus  extracts  from 
Oedipus  by  close  and  persistent  questioning,  a  con- 
fession of  the  dreadful  facts  in  his  past,  which  he 
cannot  mention  or  hear  mentioned  without  great  dis- 
tress,—  the  murder  of  his  father,  and  the  union  with 
his  own  mother.  But  he  insists  that  both  deeds  were 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLOXOS   OF    SOPHOKLES.      129 

done  in  utter  ignorance,  and  without  thought  of  evil 
on  his  part.  This  brief  passage  seems  to  be  intro- 
duced here  in  order  to  bring  before  us  yet  again  his 
freedom  from  guilt  in  the  matter,  and  the  horror  with 
which  he  looks  back  upon  it  all.  These  things  are 
impressed  upon  us  by  frequent  repetition  through  the 
play,  and  it  seems  necessary  that  they  should  be,  that 
we  may  understand  the  favor  with  which  the  gods  at 
last  regard  him. 

At  this  point  Theseus,  king  of  Athens,  comes  in, 
and  the  action  of  the  play  takes  a  new  turn,  the 
second  main  incident  beginning  here.  The  first  main 
incident  is  the  application  of  Oedipus  for  shelter  in 
Attika ;  the  second  is  his  actual  reception  by  the 
highest  authority  of  the  state.  The  king  greets 
Oedipus  by  name,  after  briefly  explaining  how  he 
has  made  up  his  mind  that  the  mysterious  wanderer 
must  be  he,  and  asks  what  request  he  has  to  make. 
Oedipus  tells  him  that  he  brings  his  own  body  as  a 
gift  to  Athens,  and  that  if  the  gift  is  accepted,  it  will 
prove  a  great  benefit  to  the  state.  When  Theseus 
asks  how,  Oedipus  at  first  puts  him  off  by  saying 
that  time  will  show ;  but  presently  in  answer  to  fur- 
ther questions  it  comes  out  that,  if  Theseus  will  give 
his  body  burial,  and  resist  all  attempts  of  the  Thebans 
to  get  him  away  before  or  after  his  death,  then  in  a 
war  which  shall  arise  between  Athens  and  Thebes, 
the  Thebans  shall  be  defeated  at  his  grave.  Theseus 
now  formally  consents  to  his  remaining  in  Attika, 
and  gives  him  the  choice  whether  he  will  remain 


I3O  STUDIES    IX    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

where  he  is  or  go  with  him  to  Athens.  He,  of  course, 
remembering  the  oracle,  decides  to  remain  at  the 
grove  of  the  Eumenides,  and  Theseus,  after  pledging 
to  him  protection  against  any  attack,  goes  away. 

As  if  to  ratify  this  promise  of  the  king,  and  to  show 
what  joys  are  implied  in  it,  the  chorus  breaks  out  into 
a  well-known  and  exquisite  song  in  praise  of  Ko- 
lonos  and  of  Attika.  A  rough  version  will  give  the 
run  of  thought.  First  strophe  :  "  Thou  hast  come, 
wanderer,  to  the  choicest  region  of  this  land,  the  white 
hill  of  Kolonos,  which  above  all  others  the  nightingale 
frequents,  warbling  plaintively  among  green  thickets, 
honoring  the  dark  ivy  and  the  deity's  sacred  grove, 
rich  in  fruits,  which  never  the  sun  nor  blast  of 
any  storm  penetrates ;  where  the  reveller  Dionysos 
strays  with  his  divine  attendants."  Antistrophe  : 
"  And  by  the  rain  from  heaven  is  ever  fostered  the 
narcissus,  time-honored  garland  of  the  two  great  god- 
desses, and  the  yellow  shining  crocus.  Nor  do  the 
sleepless  rills  from  the  Kephissos  ever  fail,  but  con- 
tinually they  flow  over  and  fertilize  with  pure  water 
the  hollows  of  the  hilly  land  ;  which  land  the  Muses 
do  not  scorn,  nor  does  Aphrodite  with  golden  reins." 
Second  strophe  :  "And  there  is  (here)  what  I  do  not 
hear  of  as  belonging  to  Asia,  nor  ever  growing  in  the 
great  Dorian  peninsula  —  the  native  self-propagating 
tree,  that  no  enemy  has  dared  to  visit,  which  here 
most  abounds,  the  gray-green  wholesome  olive,  which 
no  warrior  young  or  old  shall  ever  destroy,  for  the  all- 
seeing  eye  of  Zeus  and  the  keen  glance  of  Athena 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS  OF    SOPHOKLES.      13! 

watch  over  it."  Second  antistrophe  :  "And  another 
most  choice  glory  have  I  to  mention  for  my  native 
land,  the  gift  of  a  mighty  god,  the  glory  of  the  horse 
and  of  the  sea.  It  is  thou,  O  son  of  Kronos,  lord 
Poseidon,  who  hast  given  her  this  glory,  in  that  it  was 
here  that  thou  didst  first  bring  the  horse  under  the 
restraining  bit.  And  the  oar,  framed  for  the  hand  of 
man,  flies  and  leaps  over  the  water  of  the  sea,  keep- 
ing pace  with  the  thronging  Nereids."  You  see  how 
the  poet  passes  from  praise  of  the  special  locality,  the 
place  of  his  own  birth,  to  praise  which  includes  the 
whole  land  of  Attika.  The  luxuriant  growth  of  the 
vines  and  trees  mentioned  may  have  been  peculiar  to 
Kolonos,  but  the  culture  of  the  olive,  the  use  of  the 
horse  and  of  the  oar,  we  know  were  not.  No  version 
that  I  have  seen  gives  any  idea  of  the  careful  structure 
of  the  ode,  its  balanced  clauses,  its  chosen  epithets, 
its  harmony  of  sound  and  sense.  Each  of  the  first 
pair  of  stanzas  ends  with  a  brief  mention  of  deities, 
with  whose  attributes  the  earlier  part  of  the  verse  has 
some  connection.  Of  the  second  pair,  one  is  devoted 
to  the  praise  of  the  olive  and  of  Athena,  the  other 
speaks  of  the  horse  and  the  oar,  and  of  Poseidon  who 
gave  them  for  the  use  of  man,  thus  recalling  the  myth 
of  the  strife  between  these  two  divinities  for  the  pos- 
session of  Attika.  It  is  one  of  the  most  charming 
choruses  in  Sophokles,  and  one  of  the  few  passages 
in  classical  literature  that  show  a  pleasure  in  the 
beauties  of  nature.  But  a  modern  reader  notices  at 
once  that  there  is  no  reference  in  it  to  what  strikes 


132  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

us  as  a  chief  part  of  landscape  beauty.  Nothing  is 
said  of  the  view  of  Kolonos,  or  of  the  view  from  it, 
although  the  latter  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  that 
the  modern  traveller  can  find  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Athens,  embracing  the  whole  plain  with  its  olive 
groves  and  houses,  the  Akropolis,  and  the  other  hills 
around  it,  the  more  distant  encircling  mountains,  and 
at  one  point  a  broad  stretch  of  the  blue  sea.  There  is 
no  recognition  of  the  beauty  that  appeals  to  the  eye, 
and  through  it  to  the  imagination,  the  beauty  of  dis- 
tant outline,  of  ever-varying  color,  of  combination  and 
suggestion.  Instead  of  this  we  have  an  enumeration 
of  the  several  features  that  make  the  place  delightful 
or  serve  the  uses  of  man  and  of  the  divinities  that 
honor  it. 

After  this  comes  the  third  main  incident  of  the 
play,  the  efforts  to  remove  Oedipus  from  his  sanc- 
tuary, and  to  make  him  take  one  side  or  the  other  in 
the  impending  conflict  at  Thebes.  It  takes  up  some 
seven  hundred  lines  of  the  play,  but  we  may  pass  over 
most  of  it  briefly ;  indeed,  it  seems  as  if  some  of  the 
proverbial  garrulousness  of  old  age  had  got  control  of 
the  poet  here.  After  the  splendid  chorus,  Kreon 
comes  in,  and,  as  Antigone  says,  speedily  puts  the 
brave  boasts  of  its  words  to  the  test  of  action.  He 
begins  with  a  smooth  speech,  professing  to  be  sent 
from  Thebes  to  persuade  Oedipus  to  come  home 
and  hide  away  among  his  kindred  the  scandal  of  his 
life.  But  Oedipus  answers  him  with  so  much  in- 
dignation and  contempt,  that  in  the  wrangling  that 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS  OF    SOPHOKLES.      133 

follows  between  the  two,  Kreon  presently  throws  off 
his  mask,  and,  after  boasting  that  he  has  already  cap- 
tured Ismene,  directs  his  attendants  to  seize  and 
drag  off  Antigone.  This  they  do  in  spite  of  the  pro- 
tests of  the  chorus.  Then  encouraged  by  his  success 
so  far,  he  proceeds  to  attempt  to  drag  off  Oedipus 
himself,  which  of  course  was  his  real  aim  from  the 
beginning.  But  now  the  chorus  shouts  so  loudly  for 
help  that  Theseus,  who  is  sacrificing  at  the  altar  of 
Poseidon  not  far  off,  hears  them,  and  comes  to  learn 
what  the  matter  is.  His  coming  quickly  changes  the 
state  of  things.  As  soon  as  he  learns  what  has  been 
done,  he  sends  off  from  those  gathered  at  the  sacri- 
fice soldiers  to  guard  the  road  by  which  the  girls  will 
naturally  be  taken  on  the  way  to  Thebes,  and  then, 
after  listening  to  Kreon's  defense  of  his  conduct,  and 
a  long  reply  from  Oedipus,  requires  the  former  to 
guide  him  to  the  place  where  the  girls  are. 

While  they  are  gone,  the  chorus,  unable  on  account 
of  their  age  to  join  in  the  pursuit,  utter  a  song  hav- 
ing reference  to  the  battle  which  they  suppose  will 
occur.  They  wish  they  could  be  present  at  one  place 
or  another  where  they  imagine  it  to  be  going  on  ; 
they  predict  victory  for  their  countrymen  ;  they  pray 
to  Zeus,  Athena,  and  Apollo  to  fulfil  that  prediction. 
This  choral  song  seems  designed  merely  to  fill  the 
gap  between  the  departure  and  the  return  of  Theseus. 
Some  time  must  be  allowed  for  the  rescue,  since  it  is 
implied  by  line  1 148  that  there  was  something  of  a 
struggle  between  the  two  parties.  But  we  see  from 


134  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

the  brevity  of  the  chorus,  —  only  fifty  lines,  —  that  the 
poet  was  not  careful  to  make  the  interval  seem  long 
enough  for  the  pursuit,  the  conflict,  and  the  return  ; 
no  such  realism  was  required  by  anything  in  the 
Greek  artistic  sense. 

At  the  end  of  the  chorus,  Theseus  comes  in  with 
the  two  maidens.  They  are  warmly  welcomed  by 
their  father,  who  also  pours  out  his  gratitude  to  their 
deliverer.  And  here  it  is  interesting  to  notice  how 
the  poet  avoids  giving  an  account  of  the  battle,  which 
he  seems  to  have  known  the  audience  would  expect, 
and  yet  to  have  preferred  for  some  reason  not  to  give. 
He  makes  Oedipus  ask  Antigone  for  an  account  of 
what  had  occurred.  She  refers  him  to  Theseus  as 
the  proper  person  to  tell  of  his  own  achievements. 
So  he  turns  to  him,  and,  though  he  does  not  in  so 
many  words  ask  for  the  story,  yet  he  evidently  ex- 
pects it,  and  Theseus  recognizes  the  unuttered  wish, 
but  only  to  decline  gratifying  it  on  the  ground  that 
he  does  not  wish  to  boast  of  what  he  has  himself 
done,  and  what  Oedipus  can  learn  about  from  his 
daughters.  "  Besides,"  says  he,  "  another  matter  was 
brought  to  my  notice  as  I  was  coming  here  which 
needs  immediate  attention."  This  announcement 
diverts  the  thoughts  of  all  parties  from  the  battle, 
and  Oedipus  himself  starts  and  keeps  up  the  inquiry 
about  this  new  matter.  "They  tell  me,"  says  Theseus, 
"  that  a  man,  not  a  townsman  of  yours,  but  yet  a  kins- 
man, has  sat  down  as  a  suppliant  at  the  altar  of  Po- 
seidon where  I  was  just  now  sacrificing."  "Who  is 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS   OF    SOPHOKLES.      135 

he?"  asks  Oedipus.  "I  do  not  know.  I  only  know 
he  wants  to  speak  with  you,  and  to  have  safe  conduct 
away  by  the  way  he  came."  "  But  who  can  it  be  who 
comes  thus  ? "  "  Consider  whether  you  have  any 
relative  in  Argos  who  might  have  come  with  such  a 
request."  This  is  enough  for  Oedipus,  who  has 
heard  from  Ismene  that  Polyneikes  had  found  friends 
in  Argos  ;  he  will  hear  no  more,  and  refuses  at  once  to 
see  the  man,  who  must  of  course  be  Polyneikes.  The- 
seus remonstrates  with  him,  and  Antigone  pleads,  until 
at  last  he  yields,  and  consents  to  his  son's  coming. 

Again,  the  interval  necessary  to  allow  time  for 
summoning  the  suppliant  is  filled  up  with  a  choral 
song,  but  this  time  it  is  a  more  interesting  song  than 
before.  The  thought  of  it  is  suggested  by  the  sight 
of  Oedipus  as  he  sits  there,  old,  blind,  and  poor,  and 
assailed  first  by  the  violence  of  Kreon,  and  then  by 
the  hardly  less  hateful  petition  of  Polyneikes.  "  He 
who  desires  length  of  days  nurses  folly  in  his  heart. 
For  many  days  bring  one  into  sorrow  and  there  is  no 
joy  in  them ;  and  at  the  end,  gloomy  death  stands 
waiting  for  all.  Best  of  all  is  it  never  to  be  born  ;  and 
next  best  to  die  as  soon  as  possible  and  go  whence 
one  came.  For  after  the  follies  of  youth  come  the 
woes  of  life,  jealousy,  strife,  conflicts,  slayings ;  and 
after  all  these  comes  friendless,  gloomy  old  age.  In 
such  an  old  age  must  live  not  I  alone  but  also  this  poor 
man  here,  on  whose  head  as  on  some  exposed  cliff  beat 
waves  of  calamity  from  all  sides,  from  west  and  east 
and  south  and  north."  This  passage  is  one  of  the 


136  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

famous  expressions  in  ancient  literature  of  the  sense 
of  the  weariness  and  emptiness  of  human  life.  "All 
is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit."  It  is  the  more  re- 
markable as  coming  from  a  poet  who  was  notably  of 
serene  and  cheerful  temper,  and  whose  life  was  a  long 
scene  of  success  and  happiness  until  perhaps  its  very 
latest  years.  It  has  been  used,  with  other  passages  of 
similar  purport,  to  show  that  the  Greek  religion  had 
nothing  in  it  to  satisfy  the  needs  of  a  thoughtful  spirit, 
or  again  to  prove  that  old  age  was  necessarily  a  gloomy 
and  cheerless  part  of  life  to  the  Greeks.  It  does  not, 
I  think,  prove  either  of  these  things,  though  they 
may  both  be  true.  I  am  not  sure  that  we  can  get  at 
the  true  explanation  of  such  a  tone  in  Greek  litera- 
ture, but  it  seems  to  me  to  be  due  merely  to  natural 
reaction  in  the  midst  of  a  life  of  activity  and  pleasure. 
We  may  express  the  idea  under  various  forms  ;  we 
may  say  that  the  full  blaze  of  light  requires  some 
qualification  of  shadow,  or  that  it  was  the  same  feel- 
ing that  prompted  the  proverbial  presence  of  the 
skeleton  at  the  Egyptian  banquets  ;  or  we  may  recog- 
nize in  it  the  feeling  that  most  of  us  have  at  some 
times  in  youth,  —  a  perfectly  natural  and  genuine  feel- 
ing, I  think,  but  crude  and  transient,  — that  life  is  hard- 
ly worth  going  on  with,  and  the  world  is  a  poor  place 
after  all.  I  should  suppose  that  the  very  brightness 
and  gayety  of  Greek  life  in  general  would  make  such 
a  contrast  to  be  keenly  felt  and  strongly  expressed 
by  a  sensitive  spirit,  wherever  its  eye  was  caught  by 
any  of  the  inevitable  calamities  of  human  destiny 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS  OF    SOPHOKLES.      1 37 

which  cannot  be -wholly  ignored.  If  such  things 
were  possible  in  the  midst  of  all  this  joy  and  rev- 
elry, what  is  it  all  worth  ? 

After  this  chorus,  Polyneikes  appears  and  makes 
the  second  attempt  to  move  Oedipus  from  his  chosen 
resting-place.  He  comes  in  hesitatingly,  evidently 
in  doubt  as  to  his  reception,  and  addresses  first  his 
sisters,  speaking  of  his  father  in  the  third  person. 
Presently  he  gets  up  courage  to  address  his  father 
directly,  but  failing  to  get  any  answer  he  turns  again 
to  his  sisters  and  asks  them  to  help  him  move  his 
father's  will.  Antigone  encourages  him  to  go  on 
with  his  appeal,  and  to  expect  an  answer  at  the  end. 
So  he  tells  the  story  of  his  quarrel  with  his  brother, 
his  exile,  and  his  alliance  with  Argos ;  he  enumerates 
the  heroes  who  are  engaged  with  him  in  the  attack 
upon  Thebes,  and  urges  his  father  to  give  him  the  help 
of  his  presence.  For  the  oracle,  as  he  understands  it, 
promises  victory  to  the  party  in  that  struggle  (not  in 
a  struggle  between  Thebes  and  Athens,  as  Oedipus 
has  heretofore  represented  it)  which  shall  have  with 
it  the  person  of  the  old  hero.  Oedipus  hears  him 
through  and  then  calmly  proceeds  not  only  to  decline 
his  request,  but  to  curse  both  of  his  sons  in  solemn 
form,  praying  that  they  may  die  by  each  other's  hand. 
The  solemnity  and  elaborate  fulness  with  which  this 
curse  is  uttered  and  repeated  show  how  prominent 
and  important  an  element  of  the  story  it  was.  Upon 
it  depends  apparently  the  necessity  of  that  insepara- 
ble part  of  the  legend,  the  meeting  of  the  two 


138         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

brothers  in  battle  and  their  killing-  each  other.  Yet 
the  poet  seems  plainly  to  show  us  in  the  lines  which 
follow  that  there  was  no  such  necessity  of  sequence 
as  to  hamper  the  free  will  of  either  brother.  For  in 
these  next  lines  Antigone  pleads  with  Polyneikes  to 
give  up  the  expedition  against  Thebes,  and  thus  frus- 
trate that  part  of  the  terrible  curse.  Just  so  in  the 
Seven  against  Thebes  of  Aeschylos,  the  chorus  pleads 
with  Eteokles  not  to  put  himself  in  the  defense  of  the 
city  just  where  he  will  be  sure  to  meet  his  brother. 
In  both  cases  we  see  that  the  brothers  might  have 
avoided  their  sad  fate,  but  in  both  the  pride  of  mili- 
tary honor  is  too  strong.  Thus  we  see  that  in  this 
case,  as  I  believe  in  all  other  cases  in  Greek  tragedy, 
the  calamity  of  an  individual  is  due,  not  to  a  resistless 
fate,  but  to  some  error  or  sin  of  his  own  doing. 

Scarcely  has  Polyneikes  withdrawn  in  dejection 
and  disgrace,  when  the  fourth  and  last  main  incident 
of  the  play,  the  passing  of  Oedipus,  begins.  It  is 
ushered  in  by  a  peal  of  thunder,  the  meaning  of  which 
Oedipus  instantly  recognizes.  He  asks  that  The- 
seus be  sent  for  at  once.  The  dialogue  between  him 
and  Antigone  is  repeatedly  interrupted  by  short  stan- 
zas from  the  chorus,  which  describe  the  repeated 
thunderings,  reveal  the  excitement  into  which  the 
chorus  is  thrown,  and  must  have  produced  in  the 
audience,  by  breaking  in  thus  with  quick  exclama- 
tions in  impassioned  metre,  a  similar  effect  of  excite- 
ment and  confusion.  Oedipus  repeats  and  urges 
his  desire  that  Theseus  should  come,  and,  at  the  end 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS   OF    SOPHOKLES.      139 

of  the  last  choral  stanza  which  calls  loudly  for  him, 
the  king  appears.  Oedipus  at  once  becomes  calm,  and 
with  great  dignity  assumes  the  direction  of  matters. 
He  tells  Theseus  that  these  peals  of  thunder  are  a 
summons  to  him  to  go  into  the  other  world.  He 
tells  him  that  he,  Theseus,  alone  must  go  with  him 
to  the  appointed  spot  which,  in  order  to  ensure  the 
safety  of  Athens  in  conflict  with  the  neighboring 
States,  he  must  keep  secret  from  every  one,  only 
imparting  the  knowledge  to  his  successor  when  his 
own  life  draws  near  its  end.  (Thus  the  poet  ingeni- 
ously accounts  for  the  fact  that  in  his  day  no  one 
knew  the  spot  where  Oedipus  had  died.)  Then  the 
old  man  rises  in  his  blindness  and  becomes  in  his 
turn  the  leader  of  the  others,  his  daughters  being 
allowed  to  accompany  him  for  part  of  the  way.  As 
they  go  off  the  stage,  the  chorus  begins  its  last  choral 
song,  which  is  a  prayer  to  the  deities  of  the  lower 
world  to  give  to  Oedipus  an  easy  death  and  a  kindly 
welcome  into  their  domain. 

At  the  end  of  this  choral  song,  a  messenger  appears 
and  gives  the  chorus  an  account  of  the  last  that  was 
seen  of  Oedipus.  He  tells  how  he  led  them  along 
to  a  place  which  he  describes,  but  by  landmarks  which 
no  longer  exist ;  a  place  where  apparently  there  was 
thought  to  be  an  entrance  to  the  lower  world.  Here 
he  sat  down,  and  stripping  off  his  old  rags  bade  his 
daughters  bring  him  water  for  a  bath  and  a  libation. 
When  this  was  done  and  he  had  put  on  other  clothes, 
there  was  heard  a  peal  of  thunder  from  below  the 


I4O         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

ground,  whereupon  he  began  to  bid  an  affectionate 
farewell  to  his  daughters.  At  a  pause  in  their  weep- 
ing over  each  other,  there  came  an  awful  voice,  call- 
ing, "  You  there,  Oedipus  !  Why  delay  we  so  ?  It  is 
a  long  time  that  we  are  waiting  for  you."  At  this  he 
must  go;  he  only  lingers  to  commit  the  maidens 
solemnly  under  an  oath  to  the  care  of  Theseus,  and 
then  bids  them  go  away  that  they  may  not  see  what 
becomes  of  him.  When  they  have  withdrawn  and 
waited  a  little  while,  they  look  back  and  see  Theseus 
standing  there  alone,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand 
as  if  some  supernatural  sight  was  before  him.  They 
look  again  presently  and  see  him  doing  reverence  to 
the  earth  beneath  and  at  the  same  time  to  the  heavenly 
Olympus.  And  no  man  to-day,  except  Theseus, 
knows  any  more  what  became  of  Oedipus. 

After  this  the  rest  of  the  party  who  had  gone  with  the 
old  man  return,  and  the  two  maidens  utter  their  sor- 
row in  a  long  kommos,  in  which  the  chorus  join.  At 
last  Theseus  bids  them  stop  lest  they  offend  the  gods 
by  too  protracted  lamentation.  Antigone,  in  her 
blind  sorrow,  begs  him  to  let  them  see  their  father's 
grave,  but  he  refuses  because  Oedipus  had  required 
him  not  to  show  it  to  any  one.  She  acquiesces  then 
and  asks  him  to  send  them  back  to  Thebes  that,  if 
possible,  they  may  prevent  the  threatened  fatal  con- 
flict between  their  brothers.  This  he  promises  to  do, 
and  so  the  play  ends. 


THE    OEDIPUS  AT  KOLONOS  OF    SOPHOKLES.      14! 

NOTE.  —  As  to  the  plot :  Really  no  dramatic  element.  Skill  of  poet 
in  working  in  incidents  so  as  to  give  as  much  action  as  possible  to  the 
play.  In  this  like  the  Prometheus.  There,  after  the  prologue,  we  have 
a  motionless  figure,  approached  in  various  ways  with  attempts  to  sway 
his  will.  So  here,  after  the  reception  of  Oedipus,  two  unavailing 
efforts  are  made  to  change  his  purpose.  In  fact,  he,  the  central  figure, 
sits  still  in  one  place  for  thirteen  hundred  lines,  from  202  to  1540. 
Variety  of  incidents  to  make  up  for  this:  Theseus  comes  in  four  times; 
the  purification,  the  violent  proceedings  of  Kreon,  the  conflict  brought 
almost  before  our  eyes  by  the  choral  song  about  it,  the  mysterious  sum- 
mons by  the  thunder  peals. 

Natural  sequence  of  incidents,  especially  at  the  beginning;  acci- 
dental meeting  with  wayfarer;  motive  of  introducing  chorus;  device 
for  keeping  Theseus  in  the  neighborhood  (cf.  888  with  54  f.,  1494  f.). 

Reasons  for  introducing  Ismene.  She  brings  the  news  of  Kreon's 
coming,  so  that  Oedipus  is  prepared  for  that.  Also,  she  makes  known 
to  him  the  quarrel  between  the  two  brothers,  and  their  knowledge  of 
the  oracle.  This  prepares  him  to  receive  Polyneikes  as  he  would  wish 
to  do.  She  also  supplies  somebody  to  go  and  perform  the  rite  of  puri- 
fication at  the  proper  place,  and  her  being  there,  or  on  the  way,  enables 
Kreon  to  boast  of  having  already  captured  her. 

It  may  be  noted  that  there  is  no  subsequent  reference  to  this  rite  of 
purification  which  Ismene  was  sent  to  perform.  We  do  not  know 
whether  it  was  done  or  not  before  Kreon  seized  her.  Furthermore,  it 
does  not  appear  why  he  should  have  seized  her  as  a  captive  except  as  a 
mere  wanton  outrage  to  the  feelings  of  Oedipus.  For  nothing  is  said 
that  implies  any  intention  on  her  part  to  abandon  Thebes  and  join  her 
father  in  his  wandering.  Why  should  she  not  go  back  with  her  steed 
and  attendant  to  Thebes  to  live,  as  she  had  done  once  before?  The 
seizure  of  Antigone  took  away  the  sole  companion  and  the  eyes  of 
Oedipus,  but  not  so  that  of  Ismene. 

Other  difficulties  of  plot  that  have  been  noted  are  of  little  or  no 
real  importance. 

Relations  of  Athens  to  Thebes  implied  cannot  be  satisfactorily 
explained.  Much  friendly  language,  yet  a  conflict  anticipated;  per- 
haps the  sheltering  of  Oedipus  ought  to  be  regarded  as  an  unfriendly 
act.  But  the  myth  required  it,  and  perhaps  the  poet  did  not  concern 
himself  with  either  political  relations  or  contradictions. 


VI. 

SUMMARY    OF   THE   ANTIGONE   OF 
SOPHOKLES. 

THE  prologue  is  a  conversation  between  Antigone 
and  her  sister  Ismene.  It  is  accounted  for  in  the 
most  natural  way :  Antigone  the  freer,  more  active 
and  wide-awake  character,  has  heard  some  important 
news  which  the  quieter  Ismene  has  not  heard,  and  it 
is  news  the  first  hearing  of  which  may  probably  lead 
to  her  committing  herself  to  some  action  in  view  of 
it.  So  Antigone,  having  made  up  her  own  mind, 
contrives  an  interview  with  her  sister  alone,  early  in 
the  morning,  and  tells  her  that  Kreon  has  decreed 
that  Polyneikes  must  be  left  unburied  as  a  penalty 
for  making  war  on  his  native  city.  Antigone,  how- 
ever, has  resolved  to  bury  her  brother  in  spite  of  this 
decree,  and  urges  her  sister  to  join  her  in  discharging 
this  religious  duty.  Ismene  is  too  timid  or  too  pru- 
dent to  venture  such  defiance  of  authority,  and  strives 
to  persuade  Antigone  by  every  argument  she  can 
think  of  not  to  persist ;  but  it  is  all  in  vain,  and  they 
part  without  cither's  having  affected  the  other's 
purpose.  This  prologue  gives  us  in  brief  the  theme 
of  the  play,  the  conflict  which  constitutes  the  tragic 
situation.  Ismene  represents  the  general  attitude, 
that  of  everybody  except  Antigone,  —  she  disapproves 


144  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

the  decree,  but  feels  that  she  must  obey  it ;  she  ad- 
mires Antigone's  purpose,  but  cannot  bring  herself 
to  make  it  her  own.  Thus  we  see  the  same  event 
acting  differently  on  two  different  characters,  and  so 
developing  them  in  opposite  directions. 

When  the  sisters  have  withdrawn,  the  chorus  comes 
in,  singing  the  parados.  This  is  one  of  the  finest 
choral  songs  in  Sophokles.  It  is  a  song  of  triumph 
over  the  deliverance  of  the  city  and  the  repulse  of 
the  enemy.  It  is  made  up  of  alternate  lyric  and 
anapaestic  stanzas.  The  first  and  fourth  lyric  stanzas 
express  the  joy  of  the  delivered  city,  the  second  and 
third  describe  the  repulse  of  the  foe.  The  first  and 
third  anapaestic  passages  allude  to  the  unpatriotic 
action  of  Polyneikes  and  the  mutual  slaughter  of  the 
two  brothers,  thus  mingling  thoughts  of  evil  with 
the  general  strain  of  joy ;  the  second  celebrates  the 
special  intervention  of  Zeus  to  punish  the  pride  of 
the  assailants,  and  the  last  merely  announces  the 
coming  in  of  Kreon.  The  variation  of  thought  ac- 
companies the  change  of  metre,  and  the  choice  of 
words  is  such  as  to  express  the  thought  most  clearly 
and  precisely,  and  at  the  same  time  with  richness  of 
suggestion  and  ornament.  The  whole  is  full  of  bright- 
ness and  vigor,  in  harmony  with  the  sunrise  with 
which  it  opens. 

Kreon  comes  in  as  announced,  and  addresses  a 
speech  to  the  assembled  elders,  complimenting  them 
for  their  past  loyalty,  declaring  his  purpose  to  rule 
with  firmness  and  patriotism,  and  formally  publishing 


THE    ANTIGONE    OF    SOPHOKLES.  145 

his  decree  in  regard  to  Polyneikes.  The  chorus  bows 
to  the  will  of  the  king,  and  seems  to  agree  to  give  its 
support  to  the  new  decree.  It  asserts  its  belief, 
however,  that  no  action  will  be  needed,  for  no  one 
will  be  so  foolish  as  to  disobey,  with  the  penalty  of 
death  before  him.  Scarcely  are  the  words  uttered, 
when  one  of  the  guards  appointed  by  the  king  to 
watch  the  body  of  Polyneikes  and  see  that  no  one 
buries  it,  comes  hurriedly  in  to  tell  him  that  in  spite 
of  their  watching  the  deed  has  been  done.  Here  we 
have  one  of  the  best  examples  of  character-talk  in 
the  Greek  drama.  The  man  tells  everything  else 
before  he  gets  to  his  real  message,  describes  his 
own  reluctance  to  come  with  it,  in  the  dramatic  form 
peculiar  to  common  people,  evades  the  king's  ques- 
tions, and  lets  his  own  concern  in  the  matter  intrude 
itself,  until  the  reader  is  in  full  sympathy  with  the 
king's  impatience.  Then  at  last  he  tells  how  at  sun- 
rise they  found  the  body  strown  over  with  dust,  and 
how  he  was  chosen  by  lot  to  bring  the  news.  The 
king  is  very  angry,  and  utters  at  once  his  belief  that 
a  party  among  the  people  hostile  to  his  rule  have 
bribed  some  of  the  guards  to  do  this  thing.  Then  he 
dismisses  the  guard  with  heavy  threats  of  punishment 
for  him  and  his  comrades  if  they  do  not  detect  the 
criminal. 

After  this  comes  a  choral  song  of  very  different 
character  from  the  previous  one.  This  belongs  to 
the  reflective,  philosophic  type,  and  is  an  excellent 
example  of  it.  Ignorant  who  has  done  this  deed  just 


146  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

reported,  and  shocked  at  the  daring  shown  in  it,  the 
chorus  breaks  out  thus  :  "  Many  are  the  things  that 
excite  my  awe  and  wonder,  but  none  more  so  than 
the  nature  of  man ! "  Then  it  enumerates  the 
achievements  of  man  which  show  the  boldness,  rest- 
lessness, and  ingenuity  of  his  spirit ;  how  he  has 
made  the  stormy  sea  his  pathway,  how  he  makes  the 
earth  yield  him  food,  how  he  ensnares  birds,  wild 
beasts,  and  fishes,  and  has  tamed  the  horse  and  the 
bull ;  the  invention  of  speech,  of  laws,  of  house- 
building, the  cure  of  diseases ;  how  for  everything  he 
has  some  device,  except  that  he  cannot  escape  death. 
Now  all  this  wisdom,  if  guided  to  right  ends,  is  a 
blessing,  but  if  a  man  seeks  wrong  ends  by  it,  it  is  a 
curse,  —  and  here  evidently  they  have  in  mind  him 
who  has  set  at  defiance  Kreon's  decree.  To  this 
choral  song  there  is  a  number  of  parallels,  as  to  the 
type;  and  there  are  similar  passages  not  in  choral 
form,  in  which  is  given  a  brief  history,  as  it  were,  of 
civilization,  —  notably  one  in  the  Prometheus,  where 
all  the  arts  of  civilized  life  are  ascribed  to  his  gift. 
It  is  noteworthy  that  Sophokles  here  ascribes  to 
man's  daring  and  inventiveness  the  very  things  which 
elsewhere  are  regarded  as  taught  by  gods  or  heroes 
to  men.  This  simply  illustrates  the  absence  of  fixed 
systematic  doctrine  in  the  Greek  religion.  Each 
poet  might  represent  things  on  each  occasion  as  the 
occasion  demanded ;  or  as  his  own  tradition  said,  even 
if  it  conflicted  with  other  tradition. 
At  the  end  of  the  choral  song  is  an  anapaestic  stanza 


THE    ANTIGONE    OF    SOPHOKLES.  147 

in  which  the  entrance  of  Antigone  under  guard  as  a 
criminal  is  announced.  Kreon  opportunely  comes 
out  from  the  palace  at  the  same  moment  (why,  we  are 
not  told),  and  to  him  the  guard,  the  same  man  who 
had  come  before,  reports  with  something  of  the  same 
style  as  before  (unable  to  leave  out  of  view  his  own 
feelings  and  opinions)  that  they  had  caught  Antigone 
in  the  act  of  performing  burial  rites  over  the  body 
of  Polyneikes.  In  answer  to  Kreon's  question  she 
confesses  the  deed  ;  thereupon,  he  dismisses  the  guard 
and  asks  Antigone  how  she  has  dared  to  defy  his 
command.  In  reply  she  utters  the  famous  lines 
avowing  a  belief  in  divine  law  as  superior  to  any 
human  enactment  whatever.  Thus  she  justifies  her 
action  and  declares  herself  ready  to  meet  the  conse- 
quences of  it.  But  this  plea  is  of  no  avail  in  the  eyes 
of  Kreon.  His  mind  is  filled,  to  the  exclusion  of 
everything  else,  with  the  idea  that  his  decree  has 
been  set  at  naught,  and  that  all  opposition  to  it  must 
be  put  down  by  force.  He  is  not  at  all  embarrassed 
by  the  proved  falseness  of  his  previous  theory  that 
the  guards  had  been  bribed  by  disaffected  citizens  to 
bury  Polyneikes  ;  but  he  rages  against  Antigone  as  if 
he  had  all  along  known  that  she  was  the  criminal. 
He  includes  Ismene,  too,  in  his  fury,  and,  without  any 
reasonable  ground  of  suspicion,  sends  for  her  to 
answer  the  charge  of  complicity.  Meanwhile  the  argu- 
ment between  him  and  Antigone  goes  on  until  it  is 
interrupted  by  an  isolated  anapaestic  stanza  from  the 
chorus,  announcing  the  approach  of  Ismene.  She 


148  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

comes  in  weeping,  and  is  rudely  asked  by  Kreon 
whether  she  had  a  share  in  the  burying  of  her 
brother.  To  our  surprise  she  answers  that  she  had, 
if  Antigone  says  so.  This  is  one  of  the  delicate 
touches  of  the  poet  in  illustrating  character.  The 
timid  girl,  who  has  urged  her  bolder  sister  not  to 
venture  such  a  deed,  is  now  so  ^influenced  by  the 
heroic  act  and  critical  position  of  Antigone  that  she 
wants  to  be  with  her  in  everything.  She  could  not 
share  her  daring  before,  but  she  can  share  her  death 
now.  But  Antigone,  of  course,  will  not  consent  to 
this.  In  the  dialogue  that  follows  she  seems  to  us 
needlessly  harsh  and  cruel  to  Ismene.  Perhaps  all 
we  can  say  about  it  is  that  the  poet  so  conceived  her 
character,  that  in  this  trying  situation,  with  every 
nerve  held  tense  in  the  purpose  to  meet  death  in  any 
form  without  flinching,  she  would  naturally  be  unable 
to  make  allowance  for  feebler  spirits,  or  to  allow  her- 
self any  moment  of  tender  feeling.  Such  seems  to 
be  her  attitude  here,  and  we  must  admit  that  the 
impression  her  words  make  is  a  painful  one.  Yet 
they  do  not  chill  the  affection  of  Ismene,  for,  when 
Kreon  interrupts  the  dialogue  of  the  sisters,  she 
turns  to  him  and  pleads,  but  in  vain,  for  the  life  of 
Antigone.  She  is  the  first  to  mention  Haemon,  the 
son  of  Kreon,  betrothed  to  Antigone,  and  thus  the 
way  is  prepared  for  his  appearance,  in  the  next  scene. 
Kreon  orders  both  the  sisters  to  be  led  into  the 
house,  the  proper  place,  he  says,  for  women. 

Then  comes  the  third  choral  song,  of  similar  type 


THE    ANTIGONE   OF    SOPHOKLES.  149 

with  the  one  immediately  preceding,  yet  not  quite  the 
same.  That  was  entirely  abstract  and  general  in  its 
thought,  with  no  explicit  reference  to  the  special 
occasion ;  this  begins  and  ends  with  general  reflec- 
tions, but  between  them  comes  a  verse  applying  them 
to  the  case  in  hand.  It  opens  with  a  text,  as  it  were : 
"  O,  blest  are  they  whose  lives  are  free  from  touch  of 
woe  ! "  Then  comes  a  magnificent  simile,  in  which 
the  successive  calamities  that  befall  some  doomed 
families  are  likened  to  the  billows  that  sweep  on  the 
Aegean  sea,  driven  by  a  north-east  gale  from  Thrace, 
and  dashed  on  the  shores  of  Greece,  full  of  sand  and 
sea-weed.  The  antistrophe  sees  in  the  Labdakidae, 
the  royal  family  of  Thebes,  a  case  like  this ;  Labda- 
kos,  Laios,  lokasta,  Oedipus  and  his  two  sons,  have 
all  perished  miserably,  and  now  Antigone,  the  last  of 
the  race  (the  existence  of  Ismene  being  ignored  for 
the  moment),  is  to  be  cut  off.  The  second  strophe 
magnifies  in  noble  language  the  sleepless,  immortal, 
irresistible  power  of  Zeus  whose  offended  law  brings 
on  these  calamities.  Yet  not  without  the  sin  of 
man,  the  antistrophe  adds,  for  it  is  by  his  vain  hopes 
and  foolish  desires  that  he  is  led  into  trouble,  accord- 
ing to  the  old  saying  that  evil  seems  good  to  him 
whose  mind  is  set  on  wickedness.  Here  we  see  that 
the  feeling  of  dread  of  evil,  which  has  been  an  under- 
tone in  previous  choruses,  a  single  thread  interwoven 
with  a  different  texture,  comes  to  be  the  dominant 
tone;  and  so  it  remains,  with  but  a  single  partial 
exception,  through  the  rest  of  the  play. 


150  STUDIES    IX    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

At  the  end  of  this  choral  song  is  an  anapaestic 
stanza  introducing  Haemon.  Kreon  at  once  asks  him 
on  which  side  of  the  controversy  he  stands,  to  which 
Haemon  gives  an  ingeniously  ambiguous  answer. 
Kreon  construes  it  as  positively  in  his  favor,  yet 
shows  his  inward  doubt  by  going  on  to  give  his  son 
a  long  lecture  on  his  duty,  proving  by  a  variety  of 
arguments  the  importance  of  pleasing  one's  father, 
and  of  maintaining  the  government  under  which  one 
lives.  Haemon  then,  in  a  speech  of  equal  length, 
utters  his  views  plainly,  claiming  for  himself  a  right 
of  independent  judgment,  telling  his  father  how  the 
citizens  condemn  the  threatened  punishment  of  An- 
tigone, and  urging  him  not  to  persist  to  the  extreme 
of  obstinacy  in  seeing  only  one  side  of  the  matter, 
and  sticking  to  his  own  opinion.  They  go  on  from 
this,  disputing  in  single  verses,  until  both  get  thor- 
oughly angry.  Finally  Kreon  orders  Antigone  to  be 
brought  and  put  to  death  in  presence  of  Haemon, 
upon  which  the  latter  rushes  away,  vowing  never  to 
see  his  father  again.  Kreon  in  his  passion  says  that 
both  the  sisters  shall  die,  but  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
chorus  admits  that  Ismene  cannot  be  included  in  the 
penalty.  But,  instead  of  the  death  by  stoning,  which 
Antigone  had  heard  was  to  be  inflicted,  he  now  sub- 
stitutes death  by  starvation  in  an  underground  cham- 
ber, apparently  as  the  more  cruel  form. 

Here  comes  in  a  short  choral  song  of  two  stanzas 
celebrating  the  resistless  power  of  love,  suggested 
apparently  by  the  boldness  which  that  passion  had 


THE    ANTIGONE   OF    SOPHOKLES.  151 

imparted  to  Haemon  in  standing  up  against  his 
father's  will.  At  its  close  an  anapaestic  stanza  again 
announces  the  coming  of  Antigone  on  her  way  to 
death.  It  makes  also  the  transition  to  the  ensuing 
kommos,  in  which  Antigone  laments  her  fate,  in  lyric 
stanzas,  and  the  chorus  responds,  comforting  or 
rebuking  her,  first  in  anapaestic  and  then  in  iambic 
dimeters.  It  has  seemed  to  some  that  these  lamen- 
tations of  Antigone's  were  tedious  and  protracted 
beyond  the  limits  of  good  taste ;  to  others,  that  they 
were  out  of  character  in  the  heroic  girl  who  had 
dared  to  do  the  forbidden  deed  and  then  to  defend  it 
so  bravely.  The  first  of  these  criticisms  I  think  has 
been  sufficiently  answered  in  the  preface  to  President 
Woolsey's  edition  of  the  play.  As  to  the  other,  it 
should  be  said  that  such  laments  seem  natural  to  any 
human  being  in  the  immediate  prospect  of  such  a 
death,  and  that  it  would  be  unnatural  for  a  young  and 
tenderly  reared  woman  to  suppress  them.  Further- 
more, there  is  nothing  in  them  that  implies  the  least 
repentance  for  her  act.  If  Kreon  had  offered  her 
pardon  on  condition  of  any  form  of  recantation,  we 
can  have  no  doubt  with  what  scorn  she  would  have 
treated  the  offer.  Her  latest  words  show  that  she 
still  thinks  that  what  she  did  was  right,  and  these 
laments  are  simply  the  natural  utterances  of  grief  at 
being  cut  off  from  life  in  all  the  freshness  of  her 
youth.  It  does  not  imply  any  failure  of  her  courage, 
that  she  recognizes  the  horrors  of  the  fate  before  her, 
and  pours  out  her  grief  about  it. 


152  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

As  might  be  expected,  these  laments  are  not 
very  gratifying  to  Kreon's  ear,  and  presently  he 
comes  out  to  stop  them  and  hurry  her  on  her  way. 
But  the  poet  allows  her  time  for  another  long  address 
in  iambics.  She  greets  the  tomb  which  is  to  be  her 
bridal  chamber,  and  the  members  of  her  family  who 
have  died  before  her.  She  justifies  her  conduct  in  dar- 
ing so  much  for  her  brother's  sake.  She  appeals  to  the 
gods  to  convince  her  of  error  in  what  she  has  done, 
or  to  avenge  the  wrong  she  suffers.  Finally  Kreon 
threatens  those  in  charge  of  her  with  punishment  if 
they  let  her  linger  any  more,  and  then  at  length  she 
really  goes.  Her  last  words  are,  "  See  what  I  am 
suffering  for  having  fulfilled  a  religious  duty  !  "  As 
she  goes  off,  the  chorus  addresses  to  her  the  fifth 
stasimon.  This  belongs  to  the  mythological  type,  so 
to  call  it,  consisting  wholly  of  an  enumeration  of 
mythical  characters  whose  fate  was  in  one  point  or 
another  parallel  to  the  one  a  propos  of  which  they 
are  mentioned.  Here  we  have  first  Danae,  who  was 
shut  up  in  a  tomb-like  box,  then  Lykurgos,  king  of 
the  Edones,  who  was  imprisoned  in  a  rock-cut  cham- 
ber, and  last,  Kleopatra,  wife  of  Phineus,  and  her  two 
sons,  who  were  likewise  put  in  confinement,  although 
she  was  of  divine  parentage. 

At  the  end  of  this  chorus,  without  the  anapaestic 
announcement  usual  in  this  play,  a  new  person 
appears.  It  is  Teiresias,  the  blind  seer,  who  comes 
unbidden  to  tell  Kreon  what  his  prophetic  art  has  just 
been  making  known  to  him.  By  both  methods  of 


THE    ANTIGONE   OF    SOPHOKLES.  153 

divination,  the  actions  of  birds  and  the  condition  of 
victims  on  the  altar,  he  has  learned  that  something 
is  wrong,  and  he  is  convinced  that  the  gods  are 
offended  by  the  fact  that  pieces  of  the  unburied  body 
of  Polyneikes  are  brought  near  their  altars  by  dogs 
and  unclean  birds.  Therefore  he  advises  Kreon,  in 
much  the  same  terms  that  Haemon  had  used,  to  lay 
aside  his  wrath  and  let  the  body  be  buried.  But 
Kreon  is  in  no  mood  for  this.  Forgetting  how  mis- 
taken his  former  assumption  had  proved  to  be,  that 
some  one  had  bribed  the  guards  to  defeat  his  pur- 
pose, he  at  once  makes  the  same  assumption  quite 
as  confidently  about  the  prophet,  —  that  he  has 
been  bribed,  —  and  declares  violently  that  nothing 
shall  make  him  swerve  from  his  purpose,  not  even  if 
the  throne  itself  of  Zeus  be  polluted  by  pieces  of  the 
corpse.  They  wrangle  together  for  a  few  lines,  and 
then  Teiresias  exercises  the  other  function  of  his 
office,  that  of  foretelling  the  future,  and  solemnly 
warns  Kreon  that  within  a  short  time  he  must  give 
up  a  life  out  of  his  own  family  in  exchange  for  the  life 
of  Antigone,  and  to  atone  for  his  offense  against  the 
powers  of  the  world  below  in  denying  burial  to  the 
corpse.  He  then  withdraws,  leaving  Kreon  dis- 
tressed and  terrified  by  his  prophecy.  The  more 
stubborn  he  has  been,  the  more  completely  he  now 
breaks  down,  as  soon  as  he  is  really  frightened.  He 
turns  to  the  chorus  for  advice,  which  it  eagerly 
gives  him,  and  in  obedience  to  it  he  hurries  away  to 
release  Antigone  and  to  have  the  corpse  duly  buried. 


154  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

While  he  is  gone  the  chorus  breaks  out  in  a  prayer 
to  Bacchus  to  come  and  purify  the  city  from  its  pol- 
lution. It  is  in  the  form  of  a  hyporchema,  or  a  song 
accompanied  by  a  rapid  dance  movement.  It  refers 
to  the  titles  of  the  god,  enumerates  the  places  which 
he  most  frequents  and  from  some  one  of  which  they 
pray  him  to  come,  urges  the  claims  of  Thebes  to  his 
special  favor,  and  closes  with  honorific  descriptions 
of  his  glories.  It  is  one  of  the  best  examples  we  have 
of  such  a  combination  of  hymn  and  prayer,  and  gives 
a  clear  idea  of  the  Greek  mind  in  the  attitude  of  devo- 
tion. Now  the  play  hastens  to  its  close.  A  mes- 
senger comes  in  and  after  some  moralizing  tells  the 
fact  of  the  death  of  Haemon.  Haemon's  mother  Eury- 
dike  appears  on  her  way  to  pray  at  the  temple  of  Pal- 
las, and  overhearing  the  messenger's  words  requires  of 
him  a  full  account  of  what  has  happened.  So  he  tells 
her  how  he  went  in  attendance  on  her  husband,  and 
how  they  performed  duly  the  funeral  rites  over  the 
corpse.  Thence  they  went  to  the  prison  of  Antigone, 
but  here  they  were  too  late.  Antigone  had  hung 
herself,  and  Haemon  was  there  mourning  over  her 
dead  body.  At  sight  of  his  father  he  drew  his 
sword  and  rushed  upon  him,  but  when  Kreon  escaped 
by  flight,  he  turned  and  threw  himself  upon  his  sword 
and  so  perished  with  his  intended  bride.  At  the  end 
of  his  story,  Eurydike,  giving  up  her  own  useless  visit 
to  the  temple,  goes  back  into  the  palace  without  a 
word,  in  a  way  which  seems  ominous  of  evil. 

Again,  a  detached  anapaestic  stanza  announces  a 


THE    ANTIGONE   OF    SOPHOKLES.  155 

new  comer,  and  Kreon  enters,  bearing  the  body  of  his 
son,  and  bitterly  lamenting  his  death,  which  he  con- 
fesses that  he  himself  has  caused.  In  the  midst  of 
his  self-reproachings,  a  messenger  comes  out  from 
the  palace  and  informs  him  that  his  wife  Eurydike 
has  just  committed  suicide  on  hearing  of  the  death 
of  her  son.  This  of  course  redoubles  his  grief,  and 
the  play  closes,  leaving  him  in  this  deserved  misery, 
with  a  reflection  by  the  chorus  on  the  folly  of  such 
sinful  and  obstinate  self-will. 

JOTTINGS. 

CHARACTER  OF  ANTIGONE. — Not  an  ideal  woman,  nor  drawn 
directly  from  any  Greek  woman  of  the  poet's  time  or  in  history;  a  fig- 
ure of  heroic  stature,  embodying  and  possessed  by  one  principle  or 
idea.  Suppose  a  modern  poet  to  try  to  give  such  a  picture  of  Jael,  or 
Judith;  it  would  not  be  a  pleasing  picture.  It  is  remarkable  how  the  poet 
here  seems  to  strive  to  soften  by  hints  what  in  direct  depicting  he  must 
make  hard  and  severe;  note  her  relation  to  Haemon,  her  apparent  popu- 
larity as  shown  by  what  he  says  of  public  sentiment  about  her  death, 
her  occasional  expressions  of  affection  to  her  family,  especially  verses 
897  ff.  For  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  she  is  not  an  embodiment  of 
sisterly  love,  though  it  is  often  said  that  she  is.  It  is  not  primarily  love 
to  her  brother  that  made  her  do  her  bold  deed,  but  another  sentiment, 
strange  to  us  but  very  familiar  and  powerful  in  the  Greek  mind,  that  of 
the  religious  obligation  of  members  of  a  family  to  the  dead  of  the  family. 
This  is  shown  by  her  defense,  vv.  45  ff.  This  fulfilment  of  duty  natu- 
rally endears  her  to  the  dead  members  of  the  family,  especially  Poly- 
neikes  (vv.  81,  899  f.),  and  it  also  naturally  implies  love  to  them,  but 
does  not  proceed  wholly  from  that  feeling.  The  common  view  that  it 
does,  belittles  the  heroic  figure  of  Antigone  by  as  much  as  a  sentiment, 
even  a  natural  and  pure  one,  such  as  family  affection,  is  in  itself  a  less 
noble  thing  than  a  keen  and  strong  sense  of  duty. 

Antigone  or  Kreon  right?  A  question  much  discussed  at  one  time. 
Of  possible  combinations  only  three  probable  —  Antigone  all  right  and 


156  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

Kreon  all  wrong;  Antigone  all  right  and  Kreon  partly  so;  each  partly 
right  and  partly  wrong.  Last  seems  most  probable.  That  a  tragic 
conflict  should  interest  us,  it  seems  almost  necessary  that  there  should 
be  some  measure  or,  at  least,  appearance  of  right  on  each  side.  That 
a  tragic  hero  should  be  the  best  possible,  he  or  she  ought  to  be  a  noble 
character  with  some  fault  or  defect  shown  in  play. 

Is  Antigone's  deed  a  failure?  see  Hellenica. 

The  Antigone  in  many  respects  a  typical  Greek  tragedy.  —  Almost 
no  plot.  (The  Oedipus  Rex  a  notable  exception  to  this  rule) .  —  One 
leading  character  with  no  development;  others  as  foils  or  opponents, 

—  here  three,  as  in  Prometheus,  Oedipus  Coloneus,  Electra.  —  Chorus 
in  neutral  position,  advising  moderation  to  both   parties.     Chorus  of 
elders,  as  in  Persae,  Agamemnon,   Oedipus  Rex,  Oediptis  Coloneus.  — 
In  disposition  of  parts,  prologos,  parados,  etc.,   quite   regular.  —  Epic 
element  in  narrative. 

Why  is  Ismene  in  prologos?  No  other  fit  confidant.  —  First  coming 
of  guard  is  natural  in  the  story,  —  it  serves  to  show  Kreon's  character 
in  treatment  of  him.  —  The  arrest  of  Ismene  by  bringing  her  again  upon 
the  stage  enables  the  poet  to  show  in  a  new  light  the  character  of  An- 
tigone. —  Kreon  sins  against  a  law  of  family,  and  is  punished  in  family. 

—  Introduction  of  Haemon  an  invention  of  Sophokles. 

Faults  of  play :  Argumentation  between  Kreon  and  Haemon  too 
much  like  wrangling  in  court.  Something  of  it  in  all  Sophokles's 
plays,  but  in  Philoktetes  it  is  not  offensive.  None  of  it  in  Aeschylus, 
unless  in  Eumenides,  — but  that  is  a  court  scene. 

No  motive  for  Kreon's  going  away  at  v.  326,  or  coming  back  at  v. 
386. 


VII. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  WRITTEN    LITER- 
ATURE  IN   GREECE.1 

A  N  article  on  the  above  subject  by  Professor  F.  A. 
Paley  in  Fraser's  Magazine  for  March,  1880,  fur- 
nishes an  occasion  for  some  criticism  and  for  a  state- 
ment of  the  grounds  of  an  opinion  differing  somewhat 
from  the  one  there  maintained.  I  will  first  state  as 
briefly  as  possible  the  arguments  and  conclusions  of 
Paley's  article,  with  comments,  and  then  present  what 
evidence  I  can  in  favor  of  a  different  view. 

Mr.  Paley's  general  proposition  is,  that  there  is  no 
evidence  of  the  use  of  writing  to  multiply  copies  of 
books  until  a  much  later  date  than  is  ordinarily  sup- 
posed. It  is  difficult  to  determine  precisely  to  what 
date  he  would  bring  it  down,  for  his  statements  do  not 
agree  with  one  another.  In  one  place  he  speaks  of 
"the  times  of  the  Alexandrine  school  of  learning, 
when,  for  the  first  time  (the  italics  are  his),  the  use 
of  papyrus  and  the  practice  of  transcription  became 
common."  But  a  page  or  two  later  he  says,  "Books 
were  no  sooner  introduced  than  they  became  both 
popular  and  cheap.  Treatises  on  eloquence,  as  those 

1  Reprinted  from  Transactions  of  American  Philological  Association, 
1880. 


158  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

by  Tisias  and  Corax,  mentioned  in  the  Phaedrus, 
the  stories  of  Aesop,  and  the  philosophical  dogmas  of 
Anaxagoras,  could  be  bought  at  Athens,  in  the  time 
of  Plato,  for  a  very  small  sum."  It  is  not  easy  to  see 
how  books  could  be  "  popular  and  cheap  in  the  time 
of  Plato,"  a  hundred  years  before  the  time  when  first 
"  the  use  of  papyrus  and  the  practice  of  transcription 
became  common."  But  we  will  take  the  alternative 
which  involves  least  divergence  from  the  common 
opinion,  and  suppose  Mr.  Paley  to  mean,  as  indeed 
the  whole  drift  of  the  article  indicates,  that  the  use 
of  writing  for  books  did  not  become  common  in 
Greece  until  after  400  B.C.,  and  in  fact  was  hardly 
known  at  all  before  that  date.  I  may  say  here  at  the 
outset  that  my  own  belief  is,  that  it  was  introduced 
as  much  as  fifty  years  earlier,  and  was  fully  estab- 
lished and  familiar  for  some  years  before  400  B.C. 

The  first  argument  for  Mr.  Paley's  view  is  drawn, 
he  says,  from  "  the  singular,  significant,  and  most  im- 
portant fact  which,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  has  never 
been  noticed,  that  the  Greek  language,  so  copious,  so 
expressive,  not  only  has  no  proper  verbs  equivalent 
to  the  Roman  legere  and  scribere,  but  has  no  terms  at 
all  for  any  one  of  the  implements  or  materials  so 
familiar  to  us  in  connection  with  writing  (pen,  ink, 
paper,  book,  library,  copy,  transcript,  etc.),  till  a  com- 
paratively late  period  of  the  language."  Then  in  a 
note  he  explains  that  "  the  Greek  equivalent  to  legere 
means,  to  speak,  and  that  to  scribere  means  properly, 
to  draw  or  paint."  The  latter  "came  to  be  used  of 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         159 

writing  because  it  (i.e.,  writing)  was  at  first  an  adjunct 
to  descriptive  painting."  "  The  Greek  had  two  verbs 
which  indirectly  express  reading,  but  they  are  clumsy 
shifts,  unworthy  of  so  complete  a  language,  the  one 
meaning  recognoscere,  the  other  sibi  colligere."  I  have 
quoted  this  in  full  because  it  seems  so  strange  a  pro- 
cess of  reasoning  that  I  could  hardly  trust  myself  to 
summarize  it  correctly.  If  it  proves  anything,  it 
proves  that  the  Romans  began  to  read  and  write  earlier, 
or  at  least  earlier  relatively  to  the  development  of  their 
language,  than  the  Greeks.  No  language,  of  course, 
can  have  a  word  for  either  of  these  ideas  (or  any 
other)  before  the  thing  expressed  by  the  word  is 
known  to  the  speakers  of  the  language,  but  it  does 
not  appear  that  the  use  of  the  compound  form  (eVt- 
Xeyoyu-at)  proves  any  less  frequency  or  familiarity  with 
the  thing  than  the  use  of  the  simple  form  (legere). 
Further,  legere  has  other  senses  besides  to  read,  and 
apparently  does  not  mean  to  read  before  the  time  of 
Cicero.  On  the  other  hand,  as  was  suggested  to  me 
by  Mr.  F.  B.  Tarbell,  Xeyw,  at  least  once  in  Plato 
(Thcaet.  143  C.),  and  repeatedly  in  the  orators,  has 
the  sense  to  read  aloud,  to  recite  from  a  manuscript. 
No  such  inference  as  is  drawn  by  Mr.  Paley  from  the 
use  of  different  stems  or  simple  and  compound  forms 
in  kindred  languages  has  any  validity.  One  might  as 
well  argue  from  the  fact  that  the  same  stem  in  mod- 
ern German  means  to  speak  (reden)  and  in  modern 
English  to  read,  that  the  Germans  talked  more  than 
the  English,  and  the  English  read  more  than  the  Ger- 


I6O  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 


mans.  As  to  scribere  and  ypdfatv,  Mr.  Paley  arbi- 
trarily assumes,  without  any  reason,  I  think,  that  all 
the  uses  of  ^pdfyeiv  and  its  derivatives,  before  the 
Periklean  age,  refer  to  painting  or  to  scratching  on  a 
hard  surface.  The  truth  is  rather  that  ypdfaiv  means 
both  of  these,  and  after  writing  with  ink  is  introduced, 
means  that  too,  and  the  special  meaning  in  each  case 
must  be  determined  by  other  considerations.  That 
scribere  means  only  to  write,  indicates  merely  that  the 
literature  from  which  we  learn  its  meaning  belongs 
to  a  period  when  writing  was  a  familiar  art.  The 
alleged  absence  of  the  words  for  pen,  ink,  paper,  etc., 
will  be  referred  to  below. 

How,  then,  it  will  be  asked,  is  the  existence  of  the 
earlier  Greek  literature,  or  rather  the  preservation  of 
it  to  later  times,  to  be  explained  ?  How  is  it  that  we 
have  any  fragments  of  the  early  historians,  and  the 
whole  work  of  Herodotos  and  Thukydides  ?  Mr. 
Paley  anticipates  this  question,  and  answers  that  in 
his  opinion,  "  authors  of  works  laboriously  wrote 
them  on  strips  of  wood,  probably  on  a  surface  pre- 
pared with  wax."  These  autograph  copies  were  the 
only  ones  in  existence,  and  the  only  way  of  publish- 
ing a  book  was  by  public  readings  from  these  copies. 
He  doubts  whether  it  would  have  been  possible  to  pro- 
cure for  money  a  copy  of  the  histories  of  Herodotos  or 
Thukydides  in  the  lifetime  of  the  authors.  His  reason 
for  this  view  is  that  he  finds  no  proof  that  the  earlier 
Greeks  had  any  writing-material  equivalent  to  our  pa- 
per or  parchment.  There  are,  to  be  sure,  several  pas- 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         l6l 

sages,  to  be  cited  presently,  where  the  words  for  papy- 
rus, paper,  and  parchment  occur,  but  because  they  are 
brief  passages,  or  the  only  instances,  he  seems  to  think 
they  have  no  weight.  Yet  it  would  seem  as  if  a  single 
occurrence  of  the  word  kerosene  in  a  book  printed 
before  1 846,  or  of  wigwam  in  a  book  earlier  than  the 
discovery  of  America,  would  be  enough  to  show 
knowledge  of  the  existence  of  the  thing  denoted  by 
the  word. 

Mr.  Paley's  next  argument  is  the  absence  of  refer- 
ence in  the  writers  of  the  Periklean  age,  particularly 
Herodotos,  Thukydides,  and  Plato,  to  the  works  of 
their  predecessors.  Such  reference,  he  thinks,  would 
certainly  have  been  made  if  the  later  writers  had  had 
access  to  copies  of  the  earlier  works,  and  the  compar- 
ative absence  of  it  proves  that  no  such  copies  were 
within  their  reach. 

There  are,  it  is  true,  remarkably  few  references  by 
name  to  previous  writers  in  the  early  Greek  litera- 
ture, but  Mr.  Paley  seems  to  have  overlooked  several 
passages  in  Herodotos,  where  it  is  clearly  implied 
that  he  consulted  some  kind  of  records  or  accounts  of 
the  events  he  narrates,  or  descriptions  of  states  whose 
form  of  government  he  speaks  of.  They  are  as  fol- 
lows :  6  :  5  5  real  ravra  fiev  vvv  irepl  rovrcov 
ort,  Be  eovres  AiyvTrriot,  KCU  ore  aTroSegdpev 
ra?  A&)pte<wy  ySacrtX^/a?,  aXXotcri  yap  Trepl  avrwv  eipr)- 
rai,  edo-opev  avrd-  ra  Be  a\\oi  ov  Karekd/SovTO,  rov- 
rwv  /jbvrifjiTrjv  Trot^cro/zat,  and  then  he  goes  on  to  speak 
of  the  privileges  and  functions  of  the  Spartan  kings. 


1 62  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

9:81  6(ra  /J,ev  vvv  e^atpera  rotai  apKTTevo-acrc  avrwv 
ev  TI\aTaifj(ri  eSodr),  ou  Xeyerat  vrpo?  ov8afj,a)v,  8o/ce&>  &' 
ejcaje  KOI  TOVTOKTI  Sodrjvat.  A  similar  expression 
occurs  in  8  :  133  o  n  p,ev  /JoyXo/xeyo?  .  .  .  ravra  eVere'X- 
Xero,  OVK  e^co  fypdaai  •  ov  yap  \ejerat  •  8o«e&)  S'  eywye 
KT\.  These  passages  plainly  indicate  that  he  had  ac- 
cess, not  merely  to  inscriptions  and  formal  public 
records,  but  to  writings  prepared  for  the  information 
of  inquirers,  and  discussing  the  motives  of  actions 
as  well  as  describing  the  early  history  of  states.  (The 
use  of  authorities  by  Herodotos  is  treated  by  Rawlin- 
son  in  his  Introduction,  chapter  II.)  But  it  remains 
true,  as  Mr.  Paley  says,  that  there  are  exceedingly 
few  quotations  by  name  of  these  earlier  writers. 

Plato  quotes  Akusilaos  once,  Thukydides  quotes 
Hellanikos  once,  Herodotos  refers  to  Hekataeos  three 
or  four  times  —  but  beyond  these  few  instances  there 
is  no  recognition  by  these  writers  of  the  many  per- 
sons who  are  said  to  have  written  prose  before  their 
time.  Here  Mr.  Paley  touches  upon  a  singular  fact 
which  certainly  is  not  easy  of  explanation.  The  most 
striking  instance  of  it,  perhaps,  is  the  case  of  Thuky- 
dides, who  is  not  mentioned,  I  believe,  by  any  writer 
whose  works  we  have,  earlier  than  Dionysios  of  Hali- 
karnassos,  in  the  last  century  before  the  Christian  era. 
But  this  fact  will  not  bear  the  interpretation  Mr. 
Paley  puts  upon  it.  It  is  true  also  in  the  next  cen- 
tury, when  books  were  common.  Aristotle  does  not 
mention  Hekataeos,  Hellanikos,  Akusilaos,  Thukyd- 
ides, or  Xenophon.  Plato  does  not  quote  from  Xen- 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         163 

ophon,  nor  Xenophon  from  Plato.1  A  similar  failure 
appears  in  the  argument  which  Mr.  Paley  bases  upon 
the  statement  in  the  Phaedros  of  Plato,  that  Lysias 
was  taunted  with  being  a  \oyoy pdfos,  speeck-ivriter,  as 
almost  the  same  with  being  a  sophist.  Mr.  Paley 
regards  this  as  "  satirizing  a  practice  which  was  then 
beginning  to  come  into  vogue."  But  the  same  con- 
tempt for  \oyoy pd(f>ot  and  cro^to-rat  together  is 
expressed  in  Dem.  de  Falsa  Legatione,  a  speech 
delivered  in  342  B.C.,  long  after  the  use  of  writing 
must  have  been  familiar.  It  is  plain  that  it  is  not  the 
mere  writing  of  the  speech  that  is  objected  to,  but 
the  professional  composition  of  speeches  for  others 
to  use. 

As  the  lack  of  reference  to  previous  writers  is  mere 
negative  evidence,  Mr.  Paley  supplements  it  by  the  fact 
that  Thukydides,  in  attempting  to  sketch  the  early  his- 
tory of  Greece,  is  obliged  to  rest  upon  "inference,  mem- 
ory, hearsay."  He  has  no  current  written  literature 
to  appeal  to,  and  this  is  made  to  show  that  the  pre- 
vious historians,  Herodotos  and  his  predecessors, 
were  not  accessible  to  him.  Indeed,  Mr.  Paley  dis- 
tinctly says,  "Thukydides  does  not  seem  to  have 
known  Herodotos  at  all."  These  statements,  which 
will  surprise  every  Greek  scholar,  are  founded  on 
passages  in  the  first  book,  sections  i,  9,  20,  21. 

1  Westermann  (on  Dem.  01.  3:  21)  remarks  upon  the  habit  of  the 
orators  of  referring  for  matters  of  history  to  tradition  rather  than  to 
written  records,  and  explains  it  as  due  to  a  desire  to  identify  themselves 
as  much  as  possible  with  the  average  hearer,  assuming  no  more  knowl- 
edge than  he  would  have. 


164         STUDIES  IN  GREEK  THOUGHT. 

They  ignore  the  language  of  that  "  single  reference  " 
to  Hellanikos  in  I  :  97,  which  Mr.  Paley  repeatedly 
mentions  but  nowhere  quotes.  It  deserves  to  be 
quoted  in  full  from  its  clear  evidence  on  this  point. 
eypatya  &e  avra  (i.e.,  the  outline  of  the  growth  of  the 
Athenian  empire  after  the  Persian  war)  .  .  .  Bta  roBe, 
on  rot?  jrpo  efAov  arracTLV  e/cA-iTre?  rovro  rjv  TO  ^wpiov 
Kai  r)  ra  rrpo  rwv  M^Si/ttwj/  'Ei\\tjvifca  ^vveriOecrav  rj 
avra  ra  M-^Si/ea  •  rovrutv  Be  ocnrep  teal  rjtyaro  ev  rrj 
>?7  'EXXaz/i/co?,  /Spa^etw?  re  /cat  rot? 
eTre/Avijo-dr}.  "  I  have  written  this 
outline  for  this  reason,  because  all  my  predecessors 
have  neglected  this  period  and  composed  either  a  his- 
tory of  Greece  before  the  Persian  wars,  or  of  the  Per- 
sian wars  themselves ;  and  the  one  who  did  touch  on 
this  period  in  his  history  of  Attika,  Hellanikos,  made 
but  a  brief  record  without  strict  chronological  accu- 
racy." It  is  clear  from  this,  (i)  that  he  knew  the 
works  of  several  predecessors  in  full,  so  that  he  could 
tell  what  periods  they  treated  and  in  what  way ;  (2) 
that  he  knew  Herodotos's  work,  for  no  one  else  so 
far  as  we  know,  wrote  so  full  a  history  of  the  Persian 
wars ;  and  (3)  that  he  expected  readers  to  look  in 
their  histories  for  information  on  that  period,  and, 
failing  to  find  it,  to  have  recourse  to  his.  (Cf.  I  :  23 
Biori  &  eXvcrav,  ra?  atr/a?  Trpoeypatya  rrpwrov  Kal  ra<? 
Bia(j)opd<?,  rov  f^tj  nva  tyfrffO'eU  rrore  e£  orov  rocrovros 
TToXe/io?  rot?  "E\\r)cri  Karea-rrj.)  How,  then,  are  those 
other  passages  to  be  understood,  wherein  he  speaks 
as  if  obliged  to  rest  on  tradition  and  without  any 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         165 

previous  authorities  to  refer  to  ?  Simply  by  recogniz- 
ing the  evident  fact  that  he  did  not  regard  his  prede- 
cessors ars  authorities.  He  had  formed  for  himself  a 
new  standard  of  historic  evidence  —  and,  tested  by 
that  standard,  the  works  of  his  predecessors  could 
not  command  his  confidence.  He  refused  to  trust 
such  material  as  Herodotos  used,  and  he  means  by 
this  language  to  indicate  that  in  his  view  all  previous 
so-called  histories  rested  merely  on  tradition.  It  can 
hardly  be  doubted  that  he  included  Herodotos,  as 
well  as  Hellanikos  and  Hekataeos  among  the  Xoyo- 
<ypd(j>oi,  "  who  composed  rather  to  please  the  ear  than 
with  a  view  to  truth." 

One  other  point  in  Mr.  Paley's  article  deserves 
notice.  He  supposes  that  the  stories,  histories,  and 
philosophic  teachings  of  the  early  Greeks  were  a 
purely  oral  literature,  and  that  they  were  put  into 
writing  eventually  from  the  dictation  of  the  pupils 
and  followers  of  their  authors  —  and  that  thus  it  hap- 
pens that  the  writings  of  the  early  philosophers  and 
historians  are  referred  to.  It  would  seem  from  this 
suggestion  that  Mr.  Paley  can  hardly  have  ever 
looked  into  the  fragments  of  the  early  historians. 
He  would  have  found  a  reasonably  large  number  of 
such  fragments,  from  Hekataeos,  Charon,  Xanthos, 
Hellanikos,  and  Akusilaos,  preserving  in  many 
cases  apparently  the  original  words  of  the  authors, 
and  quoted  from  works  of  some  extent,  of  which  the 
titles  are  given.  He  would  have  seen  also  that  the 
matter  of  these  quotations  and  the  style  are  such  as 


l66  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

to  make  it  impossible  to  imagine  them  orally  deliv- 
ered and  preserved  by  memory  until  after  the  lapse 
of  years  writing  was  introduced.  It  is,  I  think, 
really  impossible  to  suppose  that  such  matter  as 
makes  up  the  "  Europe  "  and  "Asia  "  of  Hekataeos, 
for  example,  can  ever  have  been  delivered  orally  by  a 
master  to  a  group  of  listening  pupils.  For  it  con- 
sists largely,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  fragments  pre- 
served, of  a  list  of  names  of  towns  —  hardly  more 
than  the  simple  name  in  many  cases,  with  a  brief  in- 
dication of  the  locality.  One  example,  taken  almost 
at  random,  may  show  the  character  of  a  multitude : 
Steph.  Byz.  XaXatoy  •  TroXt?  Aorcpwv '  'E/carato? 
l&vpwTry  "  pera  Be  Ao/cpol,  ev  Be  XaXatoy  7roXi9,  ev  Be 
Olavdrj  7roXt9."  (Miiller,  F.  H.  G.,  83.)  One  might 
as  well  commit  the  dictionary  to  memory  as  matter 
like  this,  without  help  of  metre  or  of  connection. 
Not  only  could  it  not  be  committed  to  memory,  but 
we  may  rightly  argue  from  the  subject  matter  that 
it  would  not  be  composed  before  the  time  when  the 
idea  of  a  book  had  become  a  familiar  idea.  The  mak- 
ing of  such  a  record  does  not  belong  to  the  age  of 
epic  narration,  nor  to  that  of  lyric  song,  nor  to  that 
of  oral  speculative  discourse,  but  to  that  in  which 
history  begins  —  when  men  first  recognize  the  value 
of  facts  preserved  in  writing  and  begin  to  regard 
matter  as  well  as  form.  That  gave  rise  to  a  prose 
style,  and  thus  also  made  writing  necessary.  What 
could  induce  a  man  to  put  together  such  a  string  of 
bare  facts  as  this,  except  the  desire  to  preserve 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         167 

the  knowledge  for  the  information  of  others  in  such 
a  form  that  they  could  consult  it  ?  We  cannot  imag- 
ine Hekataeos  as  delivering  orally  such  matter  as 
this  to  a  company  of  hearers.  We  must  suppose 
that  it  was  written  out  from  the  first,  and  either  kept 
by  him  for  consultation,  or,  as  seems  more  likely, 
copied  out  as  a  whole  or  in  part  for  the  convenience 
of  those  whose  interests,  of  trade  or  colonization, 
made  them  willing  to  pay  for  the  work. 

I  come  now,  omitting  several  minor  points  in  Mr. 
Paley's  article  which  are  open  to  criticism,  to  the 
evidence  upon  which  I  rely  to  carry  back  the  exten- 
sive use  of  writing  to  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century 
before  Christ.  It  may  seem  the  more  worth  while 
to  do  this  because,  so  far  as  I  can  ascertain,  this  pre- 
cise point  has  not  been  fully  illustrated  in  any  easily 
accessible  work.  Several  of  the  passages  cited  are 
referred  to  in  Mr.  Paley's  article,  but  have  in  his 
view  little  or  no  importance.  The  passages  are  ar- 
ranged as  nearly  as  possible  in  chronological  order. 

Find.  01.  XL  iff. 

rav  'OAu/ATTtoviKav  dvayvwre  yu,oi 
'Ap^ecTTpaTou  TratSa  iroQi  <f>pevo<; 
e//,as 


This  appears  to  be,  as  Mr.  Paley  says,  the  earliest 
instance  of  avayiyvwa-Kw  meaning  to  read.  It  is  more 
than  a  mere  instance  of  the  word,  for  it  shows  it  in 
connection  with  ypdfaiv  meaning  to  write  or  engrave, 
and  both  together  in  a  metaphor,  which  would  hardly 


168  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

be  natural  or  intelligible,  unless  the  two  ideas  in  this 
association  were  so  familiar  as  to  be  caught  at  once 
by  hearers  of  the  ode.  The  practice  of  reading  writ- 
ten words  must  have  been  not  the  secret  art  of  a 
few,  but  in  some  degree  a  part  of  common  life, 
before  a  poet  could  thus  casually  refer  to  it.  Unfor- 
tunately, this  ode  cannot  be  precisely  dated,  though 
it  must  belong  some  years  before  440  B.C.,  near  which 
time  the  poet  died.  The  same  metaphor  occurs  re- 
peatedly in  Aeschylos  (e.g.,  Prom.  989,  Supp.  991, 
Clio.  441). 
Aesch.  Supp.  946! 


TO.\ST   ov 


iv  ecmv 


The  second  of  these  lines  Mr.  Paley  brackets  in  his 
third  edition,  on  the  ground  of  the  metre,  though  the 
fault  had  not  attracted  his  notice  before.  No  other 
editor  has  ever  suspected  its  genuineness,  and  many 
other  lines  no  less  open  to  objection  stand  unchal- 
lenged (e.g.,  Supp.  465,  931,  1016).  It  can  hardly  be 
doubted,  I  think,  that  the  desire  to  get  rid  of  the 
evidence  of  the  line  on  the  question  of  the  use  of 
writing  sharpened  Mr.  Paley's  sense  of  its  faulty 
metre.  For  it  plainly  testifies  to  the  familiar  use  of 
papyrus,  folded  and  sealed,  at  the  same  time  with 
that  of  wax-covered  tablets.  The  date  of  the  Sup- 
plices  is  not  known,  but  from  its  structure  it  seems 
to  be  one  of  the  earlier  plays  of  Aeschylos,  and  no 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         169 

one,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  placed  it  later  than  460 
B.C. 

The  next  witness  is  Herodotos,  whose  history  is 
supposed,  from  the  latest  incident  referred  to  in  it, 
to  have  been  finished  in  its  present  form  by  about 
the  year  425.  Of  course  the  material  for  it  was 
gathered  in  great  measure  before  this  date,  and 
his  numerous  references  (i  :  123,  125  ;  3  :  42,  123, 
128)  to  writing  upon  papyrus,  ypdfaiv  e'<?  /3i/3A,«W, 
though  they  may  all  refer  to  short  memoranda  or 
notes,  yet  imply  familiar  and  frequent  use  of  writ- 
ing before  his  time.  But  the  particular  passage 
which  I  quote  indicates  much  more  than  that.  He 
says,  in  5:58:  KCU  ra?  /9t/3A,ou9  St</>#epa 
aTro  TOV  TToXaiov  ol  *\(ove<$,  on  Kore  ev  cnravi 
e^peovro  St^deprjcn  aljer](TL  re  Kal  olerjcri  •  eri  Be  KOI 
TO  KCLT  epe  7ro\\ol  TWV  ftapfidpwv  e*9  Toiavras  Si<f>0epa<j 
<ypd$ov(ri.  "And  the  lonians  from  old  usage  give  the 
name  &t,(f)depai  (skins)  to  sheets  of  papyrus,  because 
when  papyrus  was  scarce  they  used  to  use  instead 
skins  of  goat  and  sheep;  and  still  even  in  my  day 
many  uncivilized  peoples  use  such  skins  for  writing." 
This  passage  proves  that  papyrus  was  the  usual  ma- 
terial for  writing,  as  much  so  as  paper  in  our  day,  and 
that  it  had  been  so  for  a  long  time.  Also,  that  it  was 
ordinarily  plentiful  among  the  lonians  of  Asia  Minor 
and  the  Greeks  generally  in  the  time  of  Herodotos. 
He  explains  the  local  use  of  the  word  8t(f>0epat,  (skins) 
as  a  name  for  papyrus,  as  arising  from  a  local  scarcity 
of  papyrus.  Whether  the  explanation  is  correct  or  not, 


I/O  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

it  plainly  shows  that  the  writer  thought  of  papyrus  as 
the  common  thing  for  everybody  to  write,  on  —  at  least 
among  civilized  Greeks,  for  he  adds  that  some  uncivil- 
ized peoples  still  used  skins  or  parchment.  In  my 
view  this  passage  alone  supplies  fully  that  which  Mr. 
Paley  desiderates,  viz.,  some  mention  of  the  use  of 
papyrus  as  a  writing  material.  It  fully  supports  the 
statements  of  Grote  and  Hayman,  which  Mr.  Paley 
characterizes  as  "unsupported  by  evidence." 

In  connection  with  this  passage  should  be  men- 
tioned the  occurrence  in  certain  comic  poets,  of 
about  the  same  time  with  Herodotos,  of  words 
implying  the  commonness  in  ordinary  life  of  writing 
and  apparently  of  books.  These  words  are  mentioned 
by  Pollux  (vii.  210).  Thus  he  ascribes  to  Kratinos, 
who  died  about  422  B.C.,  the  word  fti/3\ioypd(f)o<?,  and 
quotes  (ix.  47)  from  Eupolis,  whose  latest  known 
play  was  given  in  412  B.C.,  the  phrase  ov  ra  jSifiX.ia 
&via,  "where  is  the  book-market."  Other  similar 
words  occur  in  later  poets.  In  Aristophanes  there 
are  repeated  references  to  books.  Thus  in  the  Frogs 

(405  B.C.),  verse  943, 

• 

(layyava. 


"  I  reduced  tragedy  in  flesh  by  feeding  her  on  a  por- 
ridge of  moral  maxims  drawn  from  books."  And 
again,  Frogs  ni3ff.,  where  the  chorus  addresses  the 
two  poets  just  as  they  are  going  to  compare  their 
poetic  styles  : 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         I /I 

€crr/3aT£V/AeVo<.  yap  curt, 
fii/BXLov  r   Z\u>v  eKaoTos  p.av6a.vu  TO.  Sc^ia  — 

"(Fear  not  that  the  audience  will  not  understand 
your  jokes,)  for  they  have  been  disciplined  and  every 
man  has  his  book  too  and  learns  wisdom  out  of  it." 
These  are  all  instances  of  reference  to  books  in 
general,  but  we  have  one  from  the  same  time  which 
names  a  particular  book.  It  is  the  passage  already 
quoted  from  Thukydides  (i  :97).  I  may  repeat  here 
the  translation  of  it  :  "  I  have  written  this  sketch  for 
this  reason,  viz.,  because  all  my  predecessors  have 
neglected  this  period  and  composed  either  a  history 
of  Greece  before  the  Persian  wars,  or  of  those  wars 
themselves  ;  and  the  one  who  did  touch  on  this 
period  in  his  history  of  Attika,  Hellanikos,  made 
but  a  brief  record  without  strict  chronological  ac- 
curacy." Here  we  have  reference  to  several  his- 
tories, with  implied  knowledge  of  their  contents,  and 
special  reference  to  one  of  which  the  title  is  given  77 
'Am/cr)  Zvyypa<f)/],  being,  I  take  it,  a  mere  paraphrase 
for  -Y]  'AT0/9,  under  which  name  the  book  is  quoted 
by  later  writers.  This  passage  must  have  been 
written  before  400  B.C.,  and  probably  was  written 
as  early  as  between  the  Peace  of  Nikias  (422  B.C.) 
and  the  Sicilian  expedition  (415  B.C.).  It  supplies, 
from  an  almost  contemporary  source,  clear  proof  of 
the  early  existence  of  written  copies  of  the  first 
Greek  attempts  at  history,  the  existence  of  which 
has  already  been  inferred  from  the  subject  matter 


1/2  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

and  style  of  the  histories  as  seen  in  the  abundant 
fragments  of  them. 

Another  passage  of  Aristophanes,  as  commonly 
interpreted,  mentions  by  title  a  copy  of  a  particular 
book.  It  is  in  the  Frogs,  52ff. : 

KO.I  Srjr'  ITTL  r^s  veo>s  drayiyvwcrKOVTi'  fWL 

Tr]V  'AvSpoyneSav  Trpos  eyaauTov  efat^VTys  TTO$OS 

TVJV  napBiav  tTrara^e. 

Mr.  Paley  does  not  overlook  this  passage,  but  evades 
the  force  of  it  against  his  theory  by  explaining  it  as 
referring  to  the  name  of  a  ship.  In  his  view,  Diony- 
sos  sitting  on  his  own  ship  saw  another  near  by  with 
the  name  "Andromeda"  painted  on  its  stern  or  bow, 
and,  as  his  eye  rested  on  that  name  and  he  idly  read 
it  over  and  over,  it  reminded  him  of  the  play  of  Eu- 
ripides bearing  the  same  name  and  so  called  up  in 
him  a  longing  for  the  poet.  It  is  not  possible,  per- 
haps, to  show  that  this  explanation  is  certainly  and 
necessarily  a  mistaken  one,  yet  surely  the  common 
explanation,  that  he  was  reading  a  copy  of  the  play, 
is  more  natural  and  probable.  The  tense  of  dvayc- 
yvcoa-KovTi  and  the  addition  of  Trpo?  epavrov  to  it,  are 
indications  in  favor  of  this  view.  The  passage  so 
understood  shows  that  it  was  nothing  strange  in  405 
B.C.  for  a  man  going  to  serve  in  the  Athenian  fleet  to 
take  with  him  a  copy  of  some  favorite  author  or 
book. 

As  to  the  material  on  which  such  books  were  writ- 
ten, we  have,  besides  the  passage  from  Herodotos 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.          1/3 

already  quoted,  a  line  from  Plato  Comicus,  quoted  by 
Pollux  (vii.  210),  which  proves  the  use  of  the  later 
word  for  paper  in  his  time  (425-395  B.C.)  : 

TO.  ypa/A/xareia  TOVS  re  ^apra?  £K<j>€pa)v, 

"  bringing  out  the  tablets  and  the  sheets  of  paper." 
With  this  should  be  put  the  passage  from  the  other 
and  greater  Plato  (PJiaedros,  276  C.),  where  he  says  : 
OVK  apa  (TTrovSfj  avra  eV  vSari  jpd^ret,  peXavi  (TTrelpcov 
Sia  tcaXdfiov  — "  he  will  not  then  laboriously  write 
them  in  water,  sowing  (his  seed  of  truth)  with  ink 
through  a  pen."  The  date  of  the  Pkaedros  cannot  be 
certainly  determined,  though  some  scholars  have 
maintained  that  it  must  have  been  one  of  Plato's 
earliest  writings.  In  any  case  we  have  here,  not  far 
from  400  B.C.  on  either  side,  mention  of  pen,  ink,  and 
paper  (made,  of  course,  from  papyrus),  and  I  would 
call  attention  to  the  perfectly  incidental,  matter-of- 
course  character  of  the  reference  to  pen  and  ink,  in 
an  illustration,  in  this  last  passage.  It  is  not  so  that 
a  writer  would  speak  of  a  new  instrument,  just  intro- 
duced and  known  to  few  persons. 

The  passages  so  far  cited,  except  the  last,  have 
been  all  taken  from  writers  or  writings  prior  to  400 
B.C.  It  seems  proper,  however,  to  add  some  from 
Xenophon  and  Plato,  whose  writings  probably  all 
belong  after  that  date.  It  will  be  seen  that  one  of 
these  certainly  and  others  probably  involve  recogni- 
tion of  books  as  easily  accessible  before  that  date. 
The  lives  of  these  two  men  extend  from  about  430 


174  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

B.C.  to  about  355  B.C.,  but  their  writings  were  prob- 
ably all  composed  after  400  B.C.  It  is  a  great  misfor- 
tune, especially  in  the  case  of  Plato  and  with  regard 
to  the  history  of  his  philosophical  opinions,  that  the 
chronological  order  of  these  works  cannot  be  ascer- 
tained. But  I  think  it  is  fair  to  accept  his  incidental 
references  to  the  existence  and  use  of  books  as  evi- 
dence of  the  facts  within  the  first  twenty-five  years 
after  400  B.C. 

I  begin  with  the  passages  from  Xenophon  : 
Mem.  I.  6.  14  KOI  TOU<?  Ovjcravpovs  rwv  7rd\ai  ero- 
(frwv  dvSpwv  01)9  efceivoi  Ka,Te\nrov  ev  /3t/3A,toi9  ypd^av- 
re?,  dvekirrwv  tcoivf)  crvv  rot?  <£iXoi?  Siep-^ofiai.  "  And 
the  treasures  of  the  wise  men  of  old  which  they  have 
left  behind  them  in  written  books,  I  open  and  read 
over  in  company  with  my  friends."  It  is  Sokrates 
who  speaks  here,  and  the  conversation  in  which  the 
words  occur,  Xenophon  explicitly  tells  us  that  he 
himself  heard.  It  must  have  occurred  then  before 
his  departure  from  Athens  to  join  Kyros  on  his  ill- 
fated  expedition,  that  is,  before  401  B.C.  If  there  is 
any  historic  truth  in  the  Memorabilia,  it  would  be  in 
a  passage  thus  commended  to  us  by  the  author  him- 
self, and  I  hardly  see  how  we  could  ask  for  clearer  or 
better  evidence  that  books  were  easily  obtained  in  the 
lifetime  of  Sokrates.  That  they  were  to  be  obtained 
for  money  appears  from  another  passage  : 

Xen.  Mem.  IV.  2.  I  (o  ^(OKpdrr)^  Kare^adev) 
Sr)/j,ov  TOV  Kakov  rypd[A/J,aTa  TroXka  (rvvet'X.e'yfj.evov 
TWV  re  KOI  ao(f)i(rT(J!)v  TWV  evBoKi/jLcoTaTfov.  ...  8.  etVe 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         1/5 


/u.ot,  €(£77,  &>  l&vdvBrj/jue,  TO>  OVTI,  wcnrep  eyu>  dtcova), 
TTOA.A.O,  ypdfMfiara  (rvvrj-^a^  rwv  \eyo/j,ev(av  ao^wv  dv- 
Bpwv  yeyovevai  ;  N^  rov  Ai'a,  e(f>r),  a>  ^u>Kpare^  •  real 


N^  rrjv  "Hpav,  e<f)r)  6  ^(OKparr)^,  ayapai  <ye  <rov,  Store 
OVK  dpyvpiov  Kal  xpva-tov  Trpoei\ov  Oija-avpovs  Ke/CTfj- 
aOai  p,a\\ov  17  cro^ta?.  .  .  IO.  Ti  8e  8r/  ySof\oyu.ei/09  dya- 
$09  yevecrdai,  e(f>r),  &  ^vOvSrjf^e,  o~v\\eyet<f  rd  ypdp/J,ara; 
eVel  Be  Biea-iMTrrjcrev  6  Eu$u87//ao9,  (TKOTTWV  on  diroKpi- 
vatro,  7rd\iv  6  ^m/cpdrrj^,  'Apa  fir}  tar/009  ;  €<f)r)  •  7ro\\d 
ydp  teal  larpwv  ecrn  o-vyypdpfiara.  (Sokrates  learned) 
"that  Euthydemos,  a  noble  youth,  had  collected 
many  writings  of  the  most  eminent  poets  and 
learned  men.  ...  '  Tell  me,  Euthydemos,'  said  he, 
'  have  you  really,  as  I  am  told,  collected  many  writ- 
ings of  those  who  have  been  eminent  for  wisdom  ?  ' 
'Certainly,  Sokrates,'  said  he,  'and  I  am  still  collecting 
in  order  to  get  as  many  as  I  possibly  can.'  '  By  Hera,' 
said  Sokrates,  '  I  am  delighted  with  you,  because  you 
have  not  preferred  the  possession  of  treasures  of 
money  to  that  of  treasures  of  wisdom.  .  .  .  But  what 
is  it  that  you  want  to  excel  in,  Euthydemos,'  said  he, 
'  that  you  are  collecting  books  ?  '  And  when  Euthy- 
demos was  silent,  considering  what  answer  to  make, 
'Is  it  in  medicine?'  asked  Sokrates,  'for  there  are 
many  books  on  that  subject.'  "  Here  the  praise  given 
to  the  preference  of  wisdom  over  wealth  shows  that  the 
books  had  been  obtained  by  purchase.  Though  this 
conversation  is  not  vouched  for,  as  the  other  is,  by 
Xenophon's  statement  that  he  heard  it,  yet  it  prob- 


1/6  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

ably  has  historic  reality,  and  if  so,  must  have  occurred 
before  400  B.C.,  and  probably  some  years  before  the 
time  of  the  Thirty  (404  B.C.). 

Another  passage  shows  that  books  were  exported 
to  the  Greek  colonies  on  the  Euxine  Sea : 

Xen.  Anab.  VII.  5.  14  (The  Ten  Thousand  on 
their  way  home  come  to  Salmydessos  and  find  there 
many  spoils  of  wrecks  on  that  dangerous  coast.)  ev- 
ravda  evplo-KOvrat  TroXXat  fj*ev  K\tvai,  TroXXa  £e  /a/3&>- 
rta,  7ro\\al  Be  /3//3Xot  jeypafjifjievac,  tcai  raXXa  TroXXa 
oaa  ev  ^v\ivoi^  rev^ecri  vavfc\r)poi,  ayov<riv.  "  There 
were  found  many  bedsteads,  and  many  chests,  and 
many  written  books,  and  quantities  of  other  things  of 
all  kinds  that  shipmasters  convey  in  wooden  cases." 
The  word  yeypafjifAevai  here  is  wanting  in  some  inferior 
manuscripts,  but  all  the  later  editors  (L.  Dindorf,  Kru- 
ger,  Rehdantz,  Vollbrecht,  Sauppe)  take  it  into  their 
text  without  question.  These  works  of  Xenophon 
were  probably  written  after  390  B.C.,  but  the  evidence 
in  these  quoted  passages  all  refers  to  facts  occurring 
before  400  B.C.  Of  these  passages  Mr.  Paley  takes  no 
notice  whatever. 

I  add  now  a  few  passages  from  Plato,  not  as  proof 
of  the  existence  of  written  books  before  400  B.C.,  — 
for  the  writings  of  Plato  are  of  too  uncertain  date 
and  presumably  too  late  for  that,  —  but  as  indicating 
how  common  and  accessible  books  were,  and  on  how 
great  a  variety  of  subjects  they  were  composed,  with- 
in the  first  thirty  or  forty  years  after  that  date.  It 
may  be  legitimate  to  reason  backwards  from  this  fact 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         I'J'J 

and  infer  something  like  a  similar  rapidity  in  the 
spread  of  the  new  practice  before  400  B.C.,  and  thus 
get  a  confirmation  of  what  we  might  conclude  from 
the  passages  already  quoted. 

Apol.  26  D  'Ava^ayopov  olei,  tcarijyopeiv,  &  <f)£\e 
MeA/^re,  teal  OVTW  fcaTa<f>povei<;  rwv&e  real  olei  avrovs 
cLTreipovs  ypa^jjidrwv  elvcu,  ojcrre  OVK  elBevcu  on,  ra 
'Avagayopov  /3i/3\la  TOV  K\a£o/J,€Viov  ye/jiei  TOVTWV 
rwv  \oywv  ;  Here  it  will  be  observed  that  Plato  rep- 
resents Sokrates  as  saying  that  it  would  impute  il- 
literacy or  at  least  strange  want  of  knowledge  of 
current  literature  to  the  jurors,  men  chosen  by  lot, 
some  five  hundred  perhaps  in  number,  from  all  ranks 
of  the  citizens,  to  suppose  them  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  "the  books  of  Anaxagoras  teem  with  such 
doctrines  "  as  the  accuser  charged  him  with  holding. 
"The  books  of  Anaxagoras,"  one  would  think,  must 
have  been  easily  within  the  reach  of  the  people  when 
this  could  be  said.  The  next  succeeding  sentence, 
in  which  reference  is  made  to  "buying  from  the 
orchestra,  for  a  drachma  at  the  highest,  power  to 
ridicule  Sokrates  if  he  claims  these  doctrines  as 
original  with  him,"  is  so  much  disputed  as  to  its 
precise  meaning  that  it  is  better  not  to  use  it  in 
evidence  here. 

PJiaed.  97  C  aXA,'  aKovcras  fiev  irore  e/c  /3i/3X.iof 
Tti/o?,  to?  f'^7??  'Ava^ayopov  avayLyvcacncovTos  KT\. 

98    B    Kal    OVK    av   aTreBo/Jujv  TroXXoO  ra<?   eX,7rtSa<?, 
a\\a    Trdvv    mrov^fi  \a/3a)v  ra?  /3//3Xou<?  &> 
olo?  T'  r)v  dveylyvwcrtcov. 


178  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

Sympos.  177  B  eywye  r/S??  rtvl  everv^ov  J3ij3\iw, 
ev  <j>  evfjcrav  a\e<;  eTraivov  dav/^datov  e^ovres  7T/909  uxfre- 
\etav,  Kal  d\\a  roiavra  av^vd  t'Sot?  av  eyKe/cwuiaa-- 
fieva. 

Gorg.  462  B  IIci>Xo9.  'AXXa  ri  croi  &o/cei  r)  prjro- 
piK'rj  elvat ;  ^WKp.  lUpdy/jia  o  <^>^9  av  7roirj<rai  Te%vr]v 
ev  rcS  (rvyypdfAfAaTi  b  e<ya)  6^0.7^09  dveyvwv. 

518  B  M/$at«09  6  rrfv  o^foirodav  awyyeypcK^ws  Trjv 
^LKeXtKrjv.  (Mithaikos,  author  of  the  "  Handbook  of 
Sicilian  Cookery.") 

Protag.  325  E.  ol  8e  SiSda-KaXot  rovrwv  re  eVt/ie' 
\ovvrai,  Kal  €7reiSav  av  ypd^fAaTa  fJidOwcn  KCU  fjieX\o)crt 
crvvrjcreiv  rd  yeypaf^/jteva,  .  .  irapaTiOeaaiv 
rcov  ftddpwv  dvayiyvaxTKeiv  iroi'rjrwv  dyaOwv 
Kal  eKfjuavOdveiv  dvajKa^ovo-tv.  (If  the  boys  had  copies 
of  Homer  and  Hesiod  to  learn  lessons  from  in  school, 
one  would  suppose  their  fathers  might  have  had  them 
to  read.) 

Phaedr.  228  D  ^w/cp.  Aet^o.9  ye  Trpwrov,  5)  <j)i\o- 
T?79,  TI  dpa  ev  rfj  dpicrrepa  €%et<;  viro  ro3  iftarup,  ro- 
Trd^co  ydp  ere  e^eiv  rov  \6yov  avrov.  (And  so  he  had 
a  copy  of  Lysias'  speech,  which  he  presently  reads.) 

230  D.  .  .  av  e/iol  \6yov<?  OVTW  Trporelvcov  ev  /3i- 
/3Xiot9  rrfv  re  'A.TTiKr)v  (f>aivei  Trepidgeiv  aTracrav  real 
OTroi  av  aXXoae  fSov\,r]. 

273  A  rov  ye  Ticriav  avrbv  TreTraTrjfcas  aKpi/So)^, 
(This  same  phrase,  TreTrarrj/cevai  rwd,  to  be  familiar 
with  an  author,  occurs  in  the  Birds  of  Aristophanes 
(v.  471)  ovS*  Mawirov  TreTrdnj/cas,  It  seems  to  imply 
almost  necessarily  the  use  of  a  copy  of  the  author's 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.         1/9 

works.  The  Birds  came  out  in  415  B.C.  Mr.  Paley 
speaks  of  this  phrase  as  new  in  the  time  of  Plato's 
literary  activity.) 

276  C.  (The  passage  speaking  of  pen  and  ink, 
already  quoted.) 

Theaet.  152  A  ^co/cp.  ^al  yap  rrov  rcavrwv  %prj- 
p,drwv  /Aerpov  dvOpwirov  elvai.  ,  .  aveyvco/cas  yap  TTOV  ; 
®ea/T.  'Aveyvwfca  teal  TroAAa/a?. 

162  A  el  d\.rj0r)$  f)  d\ij6eia  TIpcorayopov,  a\\a  ftr) 
rrai^ovaa  etc  rov  dSvrov  r%  ^ijB\ov  e(f)6ey^aro. 

1 66  C  ov  IAOVOV  auTO?  vyvels,  a\Xa  KOI  rovs  dfcov- 
ovra?  rovro  &pdv  et9  ra  arvyypd/^pard  fiov  dvaTreiOeis* 

Soph.  232  D  Hei>.  Ta  ye  i^rjv  irepl  TTCLCTWV  re  KOL 
Kara  p,iav  eKaarriv  re^v'rjv,  a  Bel  TT/OO?  e/caarov  avTov 
rov  Srj/Jiiovpybv  dvreurrelv,  Se8r)fj,ocri(i)fjieva  rrov  tcara/3e- 
^\T]rai  yeypa/A/jieva  rw  jBov\op.evw  paOelv.  ®ea/r.  Ta 
Upwrayopeid  /AOL  (fratvei  Trepl  re  TrdX.ijs  teal  rwv  a\\wv 
re^ywv  elprjKevai,.  Rev-  Kat  TroXXwi/  ye,  & 
erepwv. 

Poht.  293  A  TOU9  iarpovs  8e  ov%  rfKia 
(Aev,  edv  re  kitovra*;  edv  re  cifcovras  rjfJids  Iwvrai,  .  .  /cat 
eav  Kara  ypd/ji^ara  r)  %&)pt9  ypa/ji/jidrcov,  .  .  rrdvrws 
ouBev  rjrrov  larpovs  (frafiev  fcrX. 

Parmen.  128  D  8td  roiavrijv  Sr)  <fci\oveiKiav  VTTO 
veov  oWo?  efjiov  eypd(f)r),  Kai  Tt9  avrb  e/c\e^re  ypa(f>ev, 
axrre  ovSe  /3ov\evcracr6ai  egeyevero,  e'ir  egotcrreov  avrb 
6i9  TO  <^>&)9  ei-Ve  //.?/. 

In  these  passages  we  see  that  books  were  so  com- 
mon in  Plato's  time  that  not  to  know  the  contents 
of  a  certain  one  would  prove  a  man  deficient  in 


180  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

education,  —  that  they  were  put  before  schoolboys 
to  learn  lessons  out  of,  —  that  particular  ones  were 
read  again  and  again  by  the  same  person,  —  that 
there  were  books  on  rhetoric,  on  the  uses  of  salt,  on 
cookery,  on  medicine,  on  wrestling,  and,  in  a  word, 
on  all  arts,  —  that  once  a  book  was  stolen  and  cir- 
culated while  the  author  was  still  deliberating  about 
publishing  it,  —  that  a  man  overheard  another  read- 
ing from  a  book  and  immediately  got  hold  of  the 
book  to  read  it  for  himself.  If  now  the  use  of  books 
was  so  general  in  all  circles  of  life  in  Plato's  time, 
the  first  thirty  or  forty  years  after  400  B.C.,  and  if,  as 
we  have  previously  seen,  mention  of  reading  and 
writing,  of  tablets,  papyrus,  and  parchments  goes 
back  to  about  450  B.C.,  and  the  mention  of  books 
and  of  book-writers  (copyists)  and  book-selling  comes 
along  between  420  and  405  B.C.,  can  it  be  supposed 
that  so  quick-witted  a  people  as  the  Athenians,  so 
interested  especially  in  every  stimulus  to  mental 
activity,  failed  to  see  the  capabilities  of  this  contri- 
vance and  to  make  use  of  it  in  that  earlier  period  ? 

I  may  be  permitted  in  conclusion  briefly  to  restate 
the  evidence  as  to  that  earlier  period.  We  have  in 
Pindar  before  450  B.C.,  a  metaphor  drawn  from  the 
arts  of  writing  and  reading.  We  have  in  Aeschylos, 
before  460  B.C.,  repeatedly  the  metaphor  from  writing, 
and  once  a  mention  of  tablets  and  of  papyrus.  We 
have  in  Herodotos,  before  425  B.C.,  frequent  reference 
to  writing  on  papyrus,  and  once  a  recognition  of  that 
as  the  usual  material  for  writing,  occasionally  supple- 


BEGINNING    OF    A    WRITTEN    LITERATURE.          l8l 

mented  by  parchment.  We  have  abundant  fragments 
of  Hekataeos  (540-4806.0.)  and  other  early  historians, 
in  a  style  of  composition  that  forbids  the  idea  of  oral 
transmission.  We  have  from  the  comic  poets  Kra- 
tinos  (before  420  B.C.),  Eupolis  (before  412  B.C.),  and 
Plato  (probably  before  405  B.C.),  fragments  containing 
mention  of  book-writing,  paper,  and  book-selling.  We 
have  from  Aristophanes  (in  plays  down  to  405  B.C.) 
reference  to  books  as  used  by  authors  and  readers, 
and  consulted  by  his  own  audience.  We  have  in 
Thukydides  (probably  before  405  B.C.)  reference  to 
the  works  of  his  predecessors  implying  knowledge 
of  their  contents  on  his  part,  and  a  suggestion  that 
other  historical  inquirers  would  consult  his  own  work 
as  he  had  theirs.  Finally  we  have  in  Xenophon  (in 
reference  to  a  time  before  400  B.C.)  mention  of  books 
as  read  among  a  company  of  friends,  as  bought  by  a 
collector  of  a  library,  and  as  exported  to  the  shores 
of  the  Euxine  sea.  Now  in  view  of  this  evidence, 
recognizing  the  fragmentary  character  of  the  remains 
we  have  of  the  literature  of  the  fifth  century  before 
Christ,  are  we  not  justified  in  holding  that  the  use  of 
writing  on  papyrus  for  the  purpose  of  preserving  and 
multiplying  copies  of  works  of  literature  began  as 
early  as  the  middle  of  that  century  and  rapidly  grew 
to  be  a  familiar  matter  of  common  life  before  its  end  ? 
It  will  be  observed  that  I  have  confined  myself  to 
the  production  of  the  evidence  attainable  on  my  sub- 
ject with  only  the  necessary  explanation  of  it.  My 
purpose  has  been  simply  to  bring  together  all  the 


1 82  STUDIES    IN    GREEK    THOUGHT. 

passages  which  I  could  find  containing  real  evidence, 
in  the  hope  that  the  collection,  not  elsewhere  made 
so  far  as  I  know,  might  be  of-  service  to  any  one  who 
wishes  to  ascertain  the  facts. 


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Selections  from  Xenophon  and  Herodotus    1.50 

Goodwin  &  WMte :  Anabasis    1.00 

Anabasis  (with  Vocabulary)    1 .50 

Humphreys Aristophanes'  Clouds :   Text  and  Notes  ...      .95 

Text  only 45 

Keep  Essential  Uses  of  the  Moods     25 

Kendrick Greek  at  Sight 15 

Leighton   New  Greek  Lessons   1.20 

Liddell  &  Scott. .  Abridged  Greek-English  Lexicon  1.90 

Unabridged  Greek-English  Lexicon 9.40 

Seymour  Selected  Odes  of  Pindar 1.40 

Sidgwick Greek  Prose  Composition    1.50 

Tarbell Philippics  of  Demosthenes 1.00 

Tyler Selections  from  Greek  Lyric  Poets    1.00 

White    First  Lessons  In  Greek 1.20 

Schmidt's  Rhythmic  and  Metric  of  the  Clas- 
sical Languages 2.50 

CEdipus  Tyrannus  of  Sophocles 1.12 

Stein's  Dialect  of  Herodotus 10 

Whiton Orations  of  Lysias 1.00 

Copies  sent  to  teachers  for  examination,  with  a,  view  to  Intro- 
duction, on  receipt  of  Introduction  Price  given  above. 


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